Overflow
by hinodegiri
Summary: Teenaged Marron deals with the past, the present, and the future. Slight AU, Yamcha/Marron
1. Dog Days

**Author's Note:** This work was inspired by Halfpenny's superior one-shot, When, which introduced me to the pairing and from which Yamcha's nickname for Marron, "baby girl", is stolen. I highly recommend the piece along with Halfpenny's other stories (particularly Gold and Rime and God's Gift to Women). This story is marked AU because while I do not consider GT canon, I take most of my inspiration for the younger characters' designs from it. I may make additional alterations in the future, but those will most likely be superficial; the AU label is, for right now, simply insurance. Please enjoy! ^_^

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><p><strong><span>Late August, age 13<span>**

Marron spent as much of the summer she turned thirteen in the water as on land. Having grown up on an island so small she could count the number of steps it took to walk from one end to the other, she could not recall a time in which she hadn't been able to swim; however, that particular summer found her turning the skill into a way of life. She remained in the sea from sunup to sundown—swimsuits in constant rotation, hair perpetually wet, she only emerged from the water to eat, and even then consumed most of her meals still up to her ankles in the surf. After inhaling food that always wound up tasting vaguely of saltwater no matter how hard she tried to keep from dripping on it, she would call a hasty _thank you_ to her father or mother before plunging right back into the ocean, where she'd remain along with Umigame until night fell and her parents called her home.

Because of this schedule, and despite consistent applications of sunscreen, Marron's naturally pale skin endured countless burnings and flakings before her complexion finally darkened into a deep caramel hue. Freckles appeared on her nose and cheekbones like stars emerging with the onset of night, and her wheat-gold hair blanched until it was the color of a peeled banana. She grew over an inch that season, prompting her grinning father to start calling her his little sea-weed. When she protested he switched to "angelfish" and only invoked the first nickname when he wanted to tease her.

That summer was, all-in-all, one of the happiest times Marron could remember. But as all summers did, it ended too soon. She emerged from her room one day wearing a one-piece and clutching a towel in her right arm, ready to locate her sea-turtle friend and spend another day swimming, only to have her father stop her at Kame Hut's screen door.

"Sorry, angel. Your mom wants you dressed to go shopping for school supplies this morning."

Marron regarded him incredulously. "Dad, school's weeks away!" she said. Kuririn's mouth quirked under his moustache.

"Try days. You go back this Monday."

Naked shock settled over the teen's face, along with something akin to despair. "You're kidding."

"'Fraid not," chirped Kuririn. Marron's shoulders slumped, and, sympathetic, he brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. He had to reach up slightly to do it: even slouching she stood a good couple inches taller than he. "School's not that bad, is it, angel?" he asked quietly.

"I hate it there," mumbled Marron, well aware of the whine in her voice. "I'm not cool. Nobody talks to me."

Kuririn studied her for a moment: the uncertainty on her face, tinged with dread and resignation, the defeated curve of her spine. He remembered many times when he'd worn that look himself. He opened his mouth to reassure her that everything would be fine, that she would find plenty of friends and do well in school because she was his smart, beautiful daughter who could never be anything less than amazing at whatever she set her mind to, but footsteps on the stairs stopped him. #18, her short, pale gold hair pushed sternly behind her ears, paused on the bottom step with an appraising glance at her husband and child.

"Get dressed, Marron. We'll be leaving in ten minutes," she said, not unkindly. Kuririn could detect the barest hint of concern in the android's tone—also curiosity, perhaps. This wasn't the sort of thing most people could pick up on, but Kuririn knew his wife the way a blacksmith knew metal and heat and an artist knew color and light: she was his greatest passion, and as such, he was fully dedicated to understanding as much about what lay beneath her seemingly-impassive surface as he could. He gave her a quick look that said, _She's having a hard time, but I'm handling it._ Understanding flicked through #18's eyes, though her expression did not shift. Meanwhile Marron, comprehending none of these subtleties, simply muttered her assent before retreating past her mother to obey.

Her room was almost too small for her—from what Marron understood, the space had been used as a storage closet prior to her birth—but she loved it anyhow. Her furniture was a mismatched collection of pieces left over from her childhood and donated by her parents' friends. Over the years, she'd decorated her plain, cream-colored walls with photos, posters, magazine cutouts, birthday cards and anything else that struck her fancy; she was continually editing her collection, and she took great pride in it. Her favorite part of her room, however, was the flock of paper airplanes suspended from the ceiling by whisper-thin strings. Varying endlessly in color and design, they stirred as a breeze crept in through Marron's half-open window. Every time she looked at them Marron remembered how her father, hovering an inch below the ceiling with his tongue poking from the side of his mouth in concentration, had patiently and carefully hung up each of the planes in turn. Pulling on a sleeveless top and a knee-length skirt, she tried to focus on that memory in place of the prospect of school.

A slight scuffling noise reached her from the other side of her bedroom door. Eyes narrowing, Marron slipped into her sneakers and took a heavy, dragon-shaped bookend from her shelf. She moved soundlessly to her door, keeping away from any of its seams and potential openings. After pausing to gather herself, she wrenched it open to find Master Roshi standing on the other side, eyes wide behind his red-rimmed sunglasses. The look on his face was similar to what a fox caught in a henhouse might have worn. He held up his hands and laughed nervously:

"Marron! Just passing by… Have I mentioned how stunningly beautiful you look tod—"

The bookend flew from Marron's grip and struck the Turtle Sage square on the forehead with a satisfying thud. He flopped to the ground, twitching like an agonized beetle. Marron berated herself mentally for forgetting to cover her keyhole, a precaution she was typically religious about taking.

"Stop peeping at me," she snarled, and made a point to step on the old man as she walked down the hall, "or next time, I'll get Mom."

Master Roshi muttered something about disrespecting one's elders. Marron pretended not to hear him. Feeling a little better in spite of herself—to her own guilt and defiant pleasure, knocking Master Roshi upside the head tended to have that effect on her—she descended the stairs to find her father waiting for her where she'd left him by the door.

"Where's Mom?" she asked him.

"Out by the car. What was that noise?"

"I was squishing a bug."

"Ah." Her father stopped her halfway over the threshold. "Marron."

The girl turned to face him. "Yes?"

The seriousness on Kuririn's face made him look older, somehow. "I never went to school, but I know growing up isn't easy. In fact, I had to fight some of my hardest battles when I was your age…and those had nothing to do with martial arts." Grinning in a slightly self-deprecating way, Kuririn laid a hand on her head. "You're a wonderful girl, Marron. You've got a good heart and a strong spirit. You'll be fine. So don't worry."

Marron managed a smile in return. She knew her father believed everything he'd said—and even if she didn't, his belief was worth a great deal. "Thanks, Dad."

"Go on then," he told her, and watched his daughter hurry out the door and over the sparse lawn to the air car where #18 waited.

* * *

><p>Talking to her mother did not come as easily to Marron as talking to her father did. It wasn't that Marron felt uncomfortable around #18, exactly—rather, her mother had the uncanny ability to sense what Marron was thinking or feeling before Marron could even begin to articulate it, leaving her daughter with the idea that small talk would be more a bother to her mother than an effective means of communication. What was more, #18 radiated an aura wholly dissimilar to Kuririn's: a kind of intensity that Marron had yet to encounter elsewhere. Her mother was not like most mothers—most women—most <em>people<em>. Marron, her perspective maturing, had lately developed a newfound awe of her that generally drove her to silence in #18's presence. So it was that she and her mother passed the car ride in relative quiet; neither of them spoke until after they'd reached West City. #18 parked their car in front of the local greengrocer's. Without warning, she turned in her seat and pushed some zeni into Marron's hand.

"It'll go faster," she said simply, "if you go to the office supply store and get your school things while I do my shopping here."

Marron's surprise kept her from feeling too dismayed at the reminder of school. She'd rarely been off on her own before, or been given this much responsibility. She searched her mother's unreadable gaze for some idea of what the normally protective woman was thinking. But #18 simply began gathering up her purse as normal. "Can you handle it?" she asked.

"Of course I can!" The girl's huffy reply was automatic, an arm raised to counter a blow. If #18 was amused at her daughter's defensiveness, she did not show it. She nodded.

"Alright. I'll meet you back out here in a half-hour."

They got out of the car. As Marron watched her mother disappear into the supermarket, a sudden knot of anxiety formed in her throat. Swallowing it down, she stuffed the bills into her pocket and started off down the city street, straightening her shoulders and forcing herself not to look back. She was fairly certain the office-supply store her mother had spoken of was in this direction, and, as she warmed to her newfound independence, she felt determined to return to the designated meeting spot before #18, thus proving, in her own mind anyway, that she was grown-up enough to handle so simple a chore as shopping. Face smoothing into a determined expression not unlike the one her father wore when facing an enemy more powerful than he, she picked up her pace, resolute.

The trek was pleasant at first. Alone, Marron found she noticed far more about the city than when she accompanied her mother. A hub for both tourism and trade, West City catered to people of every race and origin; this diversity was reflected in the numerous shops and restaurants Marron passed. And then there were the pedestrians: crowds of them, weaving in and out of an endless succession of multi-hued buildings like insects scrambling through a colony. She had never been around so many unfamiliar faces in her life; seeing the sheer volume and variance of the people of West City made her realize how sheltered she really was. _Did that man have feathers for hair? …Wow, that woman's gorgeous... I can't believe those two old ladies were arguing right in the middle of the street…!_

Unfortunately for her, twenty minutes later found Marron far less intrigued by her surroundings and far more lost than she cared to admit_. _Worry that she'd been going the wrong way had morphed from a whisper in the back of her mind to a loud buzz in the front of it. She was tired; her feet felt heavy. Sweat had invaded the nape of her neck and pasted loose strands of sun-bleached hair to her forehead, and she had bitten her lower lip till it broke and bled; the salty tang that came with an instinctive swipe of her tongue reminded Marron of the sea. She wished she were in the ocean now: better the steady waves around her cozy, familiar home than this torrent of strangers that rushed past her too fast, threatening, it felt, to swallow her up completely. Heat seemed to radiate from every angle: above from the sun, below from the blazing concrete walkway, and on either side from buildings that grew increasingly unfamiliar as she walked. Her eyes stung, and she told herself that the perspiration on her brow was to blame.

Finally, unable to continue, Marron gave in and sank down onto a ring-shaped bench. It had been built around the trunk of a great tree that had been allowed to grow up in the middle of the sidewalk, and the smooth stone against her legs felt blessedly cool. She swiped her knuckles hand across her forehead, too tired to feel humiliated. She could manage bitterness, though: _Thirteen? Ha! I'm still a stupid baby_, she reflected angrily, digging the toe of one sneaker into the concrete and willing it to crack under the force of her frustration. _And an idiot. I should have asked Mom which way the store was. If I had only used my head…! _The annoyance abruptly left her to be replaced by guilt and fear. _Oh, no. Mom. Mom's going to kill me! _

Marron was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she failed to notice the man approaching her until his shadow fell across her slumped form. "Is that Marron?"

Marron's head jerked up. For a moment the sun made it difficult for her to make out anything save the newcomer's silhouette. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but… She squinted, then gawked.

"U-Uncle Yamcha?" she stammered.

The man took a small step forward; his features were easier to view at this new angle, and a huge grin split his face. "Hey, it is you! Oh, man. You look so different; I barely recognized you!"

Heart jumping, Marron scrambled to her feet. She took in Yamcha like a gasp before a plunge: short dark hair graying slightly at the temples, black eyes bright, mouth cracked in an unconsciously wolfish smile that stretched and distorted the scars on his face. He wore casual pants, a plain white T-shirt, and what appeared to be designer-brand sneakers. His muscles were well-toned as always, and the set of his jaw as strong as she remembered. Marron looked at him and regretted standing; her knees felt weak. "H-Hello," she managed to stammer.

"Y'know, I was just thinking that I owed you and your dad a visit. And your mom, too, of course," Yamcha added hastily. There was an awkward moment where Marron half-thought he was going to hug her in greeting, but of course he didn't. "So how have you been doing? What brings you to the city?"

"I'm fine," lied Marron, wincing internally at how obviously un-fine she knew she appeared. Her shirt was dappled with sweat, her low pigtails ragged and mussed. "I was going shopping for school supplies."

Yamcha looked perplexed. "Really? There aren't any stores for that sort of thing near here…"

"Um." Marron's throat dried. She dropped her eyes from Yamcha's. "Well, I… My mom went grocery shopping, and she told me to… I mean… I sort of… got lost." The final two words came out in a whisper. She felt herself wilt in embarrassment. _He'll laugh at me_, she anticipated, humiliation spiking._ Or worse, he won't, and he'll just think I'm some idiot kid._ _"Oh, poor girl, we'd better get you home to your mommy..."_

To her shame, Yamcha did laugh; to her surprise, there was no patronization in it. In fact, it was less a laugh than a sympathetic chuckle. "Yeah, it's not hard to do in a city this big," he said easily. Marron stared at him, stunned by his nonchalance. The older man was gazing off to the side, head tilted as though he were looking through the anthill of buildings and roads at a distant horizon that only he could see. He seemed to be lost in thought—or memory. Marron found herself recalling her father's accounts of the many adventures he, Goku, and the others had had together over the years, told to her at bedtimes for as long as she could remember. In her mind they had blended together into a storybook-bright kaleidoscope of armies and emperors, monsters and thieves, gods and demons and heroes greater than either: brilliant and exciting, but slightly unreal as well. Her father's stories were distant in the way of myths and legends: she did not, upon hearing his tales, feel the pain of the battles or the terror of the monsters they featured (The closest reference she had to the latter was a vague memory of clinging to her mother on Kami's lookout, frozen by the sight of a black-eyed creature with sharp teeth and bubblegum skin). And though she had always known intellectually that it was different for her father and his friends, that they had experienced far more terrible and wonderful things than she could even begin to imagine or quantify, what she saw in Yamcha's face made her truly comprehend the gulf between her perception and their memories for the first time. It was a strange and abstract revelation, and Marron had no idea what to do with it.

Then, as though they'd never been, the clouds lifted from Yamcha's eyes. He returned his attention to her, his smile again fixed at that elusive point between roguish, laid-back, and kind. "School supplies, huh? What year will you be in?" he asked.

"Um. Second year of junior high. Seventh grade."

"Geez, make me feel old, why don't you?" laughed the former Z-warrior. Marron forced a weak smile. She was so focused on trying not to appear as nervous as she felt that she almost missed Yamcha's next statement entirely:

"…go with you?"

Blue eyes blinked. "Eh?"

Yamcha repeated, "Well, if you're still planning on shopping, why don't I come with you? I'd hate to leave you here alone."

"I can take care of myself." The indignant statement escaped her before she could check it, and she very nearly kicked herself for it. Yamcha took it in stride, however.

"Of course you can. I just figured it would be a shame for a beautiful young lady to go unaccompanied. I can beat off all the boys so you won't have to," he said, brandishing a fist with a teasing grin.

Tan though she was, Marron knew her face was blazing strawberry red. "I couldn't ask you to do that," she protested. Yamcha waved off her concern.

"It's not a bother," he assured her. "I don't have anything going on right now. Come on, it'll be fun! We can do lunch."

_Lunch_, thought Marron faintly. _He called me beautiful, and he's inviting me to lunch! _Then her stomach sank as she remembered: "My mother…"

Catching her drift, Yamcha shook his head. "Not a problem," he said, and pulled a mobile phone from his pants pocket. Marron looked at it with interest as he mashed a few buttons: she recognized it as one of Capsule Corporation's latest models. _Dad said Uncle Yamcha used to play pro baseball; I guess he has enough money to afford that kind of thing._ The dark-eyed man turned his back to Marron and put the phone to his ear. A few seconds later he spoke:

"Hey, #18! …No, it's not an emergency. I just ran into your daughter over here. Yeah, she's fine. I was only wondering if I could steal her for the afternoon… Oh, getting some lunch and finishing up her shopping. Maybe a movie, too, if she wants…Yeah. No worries, I get it… Yes, I promise not to spoil her." Half-turning, Yamcha caught Marron's eye and winked. She giggled, hiding her mouth behind one hand. "I'll have her home by four. Alright. Great. See you then." Yamcha snapped the phone's cover shut and flashed Marron a thumbs-up. "We're good to go!"

Marron couldn't resist the grin that spread across her face. Yamcha returned it. "There's that happy girl I know. I was beginning to wonder where she'd gone."

"I'm here," Marron assured him shyly. She stood, forgetting about the heat and the sweat and how terrible she knew she looked, forgetting how close she'd been to tears mere minutes ago. "You have my mom on speed-dial?" she asked.

Yamcha nodded. "Yeah. Bulma set a phone system up for everyone after Majin Buu. She figured it'd be good to have a means of easy communication in case of trouble. Of course, we can all sense ki energy, so we'd probably realize if danger was coming anyhow, but it helps to be prepared. And hey, it's a free phone!" With another conspiratorial wink, Yamcha offered her his elbow. "Milady," he said solemnly. Marron giggled, took his arm—_I can't believe I'm doing this!_ she squealed internally_—_ and allowed him to lead her down the busy street.

* * *

><p>Yamcha had his own car, but they didn't drive it ("The streets are crazy this time of day. Traffic's a pain," he told her. "It'll be faster if we walk."). Instead, they simply stored their bags in its trunk after they finished getting Marron's school supplies; as it turned out, Yamcha had parked the car in a public garage less than two blocks away from the office supply store. "It was destiny," Yamcha said with mock-seriousness when she commented on the coincidence. "We were meant to meet today." Marron laughed dutifully, though her heart secretly warmed at the idea.<p>

Shopping for school supplies had never been so much fun. Like her father, Yamcha had never received a formal education, and so the purpose of some of the requisite items was a mystery to him. He had questioned her as they'd perused the aisles, him with his hands in his pockets, her with a plastic green basket on her arm:

"What's this do?"

"It's a compass. It helps you draw accurate angles."

"And this?"

"That's a protractor. It measures angles."

"And this?"

"That's a straightedge. It helps you draw the angles neatly…"

"What's the big deal about all these angles?"

"I don't know," she'd admitted. "I haven't taken Geometry yet."

Once they'd reached the notebook aisle, Yamcha had fallen silent while Marron, who had been taking great care in picking out what she needed, had evaluated her options. Face set in thoughtful lines, she'd compared two binders—one pale blue and printed with a silvery seashell pattern, the other dark green and plain—before returning the blue one and moving to place the second in her basket.

"Why'd you do that?" Yamcha had asked.

The thirteen-year-old had blinked up at him. "Do what?"

"Put the shell one back. You obviously liked it more. What makes that one," Here he'd pointed to the binder in her hand, "better than that first one?"

Understanding had lit her face. "Oh, that. It's cheaper."

"Don't you have enough money?"

"I do! My mom gave me enough," Marron had answered quickly. "It's…I mean, well, not a lot of people will hire my dad because he doesn't have much experience and because of the height and no-nose thing, and my mom can't even get a proper job because she's not in the public records, plus she's busy taking care of me. Right now we're living off the money she got from the 25th Budokai, but that won't last forever. So I try never to spend more than I have to." Realizing that she might have said too much, Marron had closed her mouth then, but not before flushing and adding, without looking at Yamcha, "Anyway, it's only a binder. They get worn out by the end of the year anyhow."

She had paid for her school things shortly afterward, and had felt very grown-up doing so, even if she had used her mother's money rather than her own. Now, as she laid her bags in the trunk of Yamcha's car, Marron felt confident enough to risk glancing up at the former Z-fighter. To her surprise she found he was gazing back at her. He stood to her right, his hip between the rearview mirror and the front door handle, his arm braced easily against the vehicle's roof. There was something in his eyes that Marron couldn't read, though the way his mouth quirked made him seem simultaneously perplexed and amused.

"I-Is something wrong?" she asked, doing a mental inventory to ensure that she didn't have anything stuck to her face, teeth, or clothes.

Yamcha shook his head. "I was only wondering: Do your parents talk about money in front of you, Marron?"

"No. But Kame House is pretty small, so I still hear them sometimes." A thought occurred to Marron then, and her eyes widened. "Uncle Yamcha…!"

"Hmm?"

"Please don't tell my parents that I told you about the money and the jobs and all that! It's not a big deal. I mean, we're really okay. I'm okay. I shouldn't have mentioned it in the first place, so please don't tell them. Please?" Marron bit her lip again, eyes trained beseechingly on her father's friend, who held up his hands and nodded.

"Don't worry; my lips are sealed."

Marron sighed in relief. Yamcha smiled, an edge of concern at the corners of his mouth.

"Marron, has anyone ever told you that you worry way too much?" he asked.

"Um." Come to think of it, hadn't her father said something to that effect that morning? "Yes."

"That doesn't surprise me." The older fighter ran a hand through his close-cut hair, unconsciously sending Marron's heart into overdrive. He shook his head. "Well, I guess I should be praising you. Not many people _my_ age are as considerate as you are. It's hard to believe that you're only twelve."

"Thirteen," she corrected before she could stop herself.

Yamcha blinked rapidly in confusion. "Huh?"

"I'm, uh, thirteen, actually."

It took a moment for the information to sink in; then the older man's eyes widened. "You're serious? But when I called your dad a month ago, he said you were still twelve!"

"I turned thirteen on the 6th." Marron told him, both happy at the implication that Yamcha had asked about her and vaguely alarmed at how shocked he looked by the news. He now seemed to need to lean on the car for support.

"Thirteen," he said softly, as if he were tasting a new food that he wasn't sure he appreciated. "_Thirteen_. Damn."

"Uncle Yamcha, it's really not…"

"I didn't get you a birthday present."

Now it was Marron's turn to look confused. "W-What?"

"I didn't get you a present or a card or anything."

"That…!" Blood rushed to Marron's face. She scrambled to reassure him: "Y-You don't have to worry about that at all! I really don't care about that sort of thing. This is more than enough, I've had a great time, so please don't worry on my account! I didn't mean to make you feel guilty, I probably shouldn't have even mentioned it. I still act and feel more like a twelve-year-old than a thirteen-year-old anyway and Uncle Tien didn't get me anything either but he's been sort of avoiding everyone since the whole Saiyan thing, not that I'm saying you're avoiding us, but the point is I wasn't disappointed at all so you shouldn't-"

She was cut off suddenly when, in one swift, fluid movement, Yamcha knelt in front of her and laid his hands on her shoulders. "Marron," he said, voice as serious as if he were vocalizing a plan of attack, "breathe."

She did. With his face so suddenly close to hers, she found she could hardly find the presence of mind to do anything but what he suggested. The sound of air rushing in and out her lungs echoed slightly in the otherwise-silent parking garage. At length Marron calmed herself, and she averted her eyes to the ground. "Sorry," she murmured.

Yamcha's commanding gaze softened. He let out a breath in a small laugh. "Geez, baby girl. I thought you were going to have a heart attack or something," he said, releasing her and rising to his feet.

"I'm really sorr—" she began, but he cut in.

"You apologize too much, too; has anyone ever told you that? Don't worry about it." Yamcha pushed his fingers through his hair again and looked off to the side, much as he had earlier that day. After a long moment he seemed to come to some kind of decision; turning to Marron, he flashed a quick smile and asked, "Hey, you mind if we hold off on lunch for a little longer? There's this one store I wanna check out before we eat."

"O-Of course," Marron answered. She was eager for a distraction from their conversation; inside, she berated herself for overreacting. _Nice job. He probably thinks you're crazy now._ But she pushed the thought aside when Yamcha turned and made for the exit without another word; Marron scrambled to follow, her small, worn purse knocking against her hip. Neither of them noticed or sensed the man watching them from a corner of the garage, arms folded, sharp eyes appraising.


	2. Should Have Known Better

_Whoa._

The store's interior was cool and dim, lit atmospherically with strategically-placed spotlights. Soft, synthesized music ghosted through the room; the tables, shelves, and racks which displayed the finest clothing Marron had ever seen more resembled abstract sculptures in a museum than containment devices in a clothing store. Even the shop's stone floor, dark and streaked through with silver veins, exuded an air of peerless luxury that was nothing less than intimidating to Marron. Instinctively the thirteen-year-old took a step closer to Yamcha, who looked down at her with an amused grin.

"I need to pick up something. You go look around. This place is neat to browse through."

"Maybe I should stay with you," began Marron, but Yamcha chuckled and walked confidently toward the left side of the store. "I won't be but a minute," he called over his shoulder before vanishing into the men's section.

And quickly as that Marron found herself alone. She gripped the strap of her purse nervously, heart puttering as she wondered what to do next. She toyed with the idea of following Yamcha, but decided against it on the grounds that the last thing she wanted was to be a burden or to give him the impression that she was incapable of handling herself. _It's only a store, after all; there's nothing to be afraid…_

The glass door slid open behind her then, and with a small start, Marron skittered out of the way of two glamorous-looking women carrying identical designer handbags. Before she realized it she had hidden amidst a forest of clothes racks, shrinking down in an effort to render herself as inconspicuous as possible. A part of her sourly contemplating irony in all its myriad forms, she waited nervously for the inevitable snobby sales associate to come over and demand what business she had lurking in this establisment. When no one scolded her, however, curiosity got the better of Marron, and she began to poke through the clothes. They were like nothing she'd ever seen before: each piece was intriguing, modern, and strange, yet still maintained a level of elegance that greatly impressed Marron. _I guess this is why some people say fashion is art_, she mused, feeling herself begin to relax. _Mom will be so jealous. She loves this sort of thing._

The more Marron looked, the more she wanted to see. From the blouses, coats, and tops she moved on to the part of the store that featured pants, skirts, and shorts—the last of which were so small and torn that Marron figured they must have been priced by the centimeter—then hurried, embarrassed, through the lingerie section without so much as glancing at its wares. When she emerged on its opposite side, however, she froze, captivated. A group of mannequins stood dutifully as soldiers in an outward-facing ring, clad in the most stunning dresses Marron ever seen. In fact, the word _dress_ hardly did any of them justice. _Gowns. These are gowns_, Marron corrected herself, stepping forward to study each in turn. _Like what princesses wear._ Here was a dress made with fabric that appeared to have been cut out of the night sky; there was the most elaborate tiered skirt she had ever seen, all lace and silk and tulle, topped with a finely-made bodice the color of a ripe plum. As she gazed wonderingly at each in turn, she was reminded of butterflies, of flowers, of jewels; each gown, she felt, was prettier than the last, to a point at which she found herself slightly overwhelmed by their relentless, shining beauty. She made to tear her gaze away from them and return to the front to wait for Yamcha, but then one of the dresses caught her eye and stilled her steps.

It was the color of a stormy sky and it was the color of a clear sky, but more than that, it was the color of the ocean. Crisp and quartz-bright, blue-green and beautiful, it fell in drapes and pleats and waves; while its hemline was shorter than most of the other gowns, the dress featured a silvery train that pooled slightly on the floor. Marron couldn't help but touch it. The fabric was so smooth, it slipped from her fingers like the water it resembled. She touched it again, mesmerized.

"Do you want to try it on?"

Marron jumped. "O-Oh, no, thank you, I was just looking," she told the saleswoman, who regarded her with an expectant smile. She was close enough that Marron could smell her makeup. "I was waiting for someone, you see, I wouldn't even know how to put it on…"

"I could show you how. It's actually really easy! There's a zipper hidden in the fabric." The saleswoman beamed brightly. "You should try it! I bet it would look great on you."

"On…me," Marron repeated, not sure she'd heard her correctly.

"Definitely! With your skin and hair…and you have the perfect figure for it!" The woman was already removing the dress from the mannequin. Marron, too confused by the implication that she _had_ a figure to begin with, didn't fully notice what she was doing until it was too late.

"Really, you don't…!" she started, but the woman ignored her protests, thrust the gown into her hands, and steered her toward the fitting rooms.

"Come on, just try it! You like it, don't you?" she chirped.

"Well, y-yes, but—" Marron craned her neck, trying to locate Yamcha, but a light shove from the saleswoman sent her stumbling into a changing stall before she could catch sight of him. "Yipe!" Its door closed behind her with a cheery click.

"My name's Konni. Just yell if you need any help!" the saleswoman sing-songed. Bemused, Marron listened to her footsteps recede into the shop. The mineral-and-soap scent of her foundation drifted away with her.

"They must get paid on commission here," Marron reflected aloud. She sighed. _Well, nothing else for it. The sooner I try it on, the sooner I can get back to Uncle Yamcha. _So motivated,she pulled off her top and shimmied from her skirt. She nearly recoiled upon glancing into the dressing room's full-length mirror: her face looked sunken and worn under the changing room's florescent lights, and her pigtails had been reduced to two elastics feebly clutching a few thin stands of hair. Marron stuck her tongue out at her reflection. Her purse lay where she'd placed it on the ground; it yielded a small brush, which Marron raked through her hair as thoroughly as she could before cinching it into a ponytail to keep it out of her face. It looked, she thought, a little better after that, though not by much.

Then she took up the gown.

Konni had been correct; the dress was far easier to get into than Marron had expected. A halter-top, it wasn't made to be accompanied by the kind of bra that Marron wore (but did not precisely need), especially considering how low-cut the dress's open back was, and after some deliberation, she decided to remove the undergarment along with her sneakers and socks. Marron struggled with the long ties meant to go around her neck—when she finally secured them properly, their excess length trailed down past her hips, making her jump when the spiderweb-light fabric brushed her shoulder blades or spine. She pinched and shifted the dress, adjusting the fit. Then she nearly tripped over herself when Konni's voice rang out:

"Everything okay in there?"

"I'm done," called Marron, hand going over her heart.

"Come on out! Model it!" urged the saleswoman.

_Does Kami or Fate or whatever it is that controls my life _enjoy_ embarrassing me…?_ "Um, okay," she answered, trying to keep the weary sigh out of her voice. She turned the door handle and pushed. "I'm coming-"

The stall door swung open. Yamcha looked at her calmly from the opposite wall, and Marron froze, her hand still clutching the knob. On his left, Konni gave a little-girl squeal.

"Oh, sweetie, you look _gorgeous_! Yamcha, dear, you always have such good taste!"

"Y-You…?" Marron began to stammer at Yamcha, but the saleswoman broke in:

"Turn around! Turn around! Do a twirl, for goodness's sake, you look stunning!"

Shakily Marron obeyed. The dress curled around her then fanned out, fabric undulating like a tide. Konni clapped her hands.

"So," asked Yamcha with a wolfish grin, "do you feel more like a teenager than a twelve-year-old now?"

Marron willed away the tears that suddenly sprang to her eyes. "You set this up?" she asked, voice wavering.

"Well. It was kind of a rush job, and Konni helped a lot, but… yeah. You like it?"

Marron swallowed. She wasn't sure she could answer. She stared up at Yamcha and struggled to find the right words to thank him; _Yes_ and _thank you_ somehow failed to do justice to how touched she felt. To her relief Konni continued talking.

"Oh, you were so right, Yamcha! She's so tan; it looks fantastic on her! I swear," Here she addressed Marron, "I remember every time he'd have a fight with his old girlfriend—Bulma, right?—he'd bring her here and make her try on a dress that he picked out, and it was always so perfect for her that she could never stay mad at him for very long! And I seem to recall him doing that with a few other lady friends, too…sometimes more than one a day, the heartbreaker!" Konni laughed and glanced sideways at Yamcha, as if meaning to share a joke, but the expression on his face was anything but amused. He put a hand on her arm in an effort to shush her.

"Konni, enough," he said lowly.

But his admonishment came too late. Marron stared at him wide-eyed. _More than one…? What does she…? _The next moment brought with it a swift shock of adrenaline-flavored revelation that made her ears ring and her flesh prickle.

…_Uncle Yamcha's a cheater? _

_He's done this before? _

_He's treating me like…them? Like those girls he never cared about? Like he has to buy me off?_

Hurt and disappointment wove through her as each of the realizations slid into place. She tried to tell herself that her feeling of betrayal was illogical, and she ducked her head, smoothing her expression as best she could, but the pain cinched a corset around her heart. After a few agonizing seconds, Konni stammered,

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean…"

"Never mind," interrupted Yamcha hastily. He tried and failed to keep his tone light. "So, Marron, if you want that dress I'll be more than happy to get it for you. You don't need to worry about the price, and it really does look great on you."

There was a time when Marron would have given much to hear Yamcha tell her that. However, now was not that time. "No," she whispered. The word was soft and flat, barely audible.

"Sweetie, don't pay attention to anything that I said, alright? I run at the mouth sometimes; I barely realize what I'm babbling about. It's a lovely dress. You should let Yamcha get it for you," said Konni.

Resentment and anger surged through Marron. She shook her head fiercely. "I'm not one of those girls. I don't want it!" she snapped.

Eyes widening, the saleswoman pressed her perfectly manicured fingers against her lips. The dressing room was suddenly very quiet. Marron trembled, eyes moist and angry. Her gaze flicked to Yamcha in spite of herself. Something bitter and sad had crept into the former z-warrior's countenance. The sight of it set her gut coiling.

"I understand. It's fine," he told her after a beat. He turned away from Marron, who felt suddenly weighed down by the air-light silk of her dress. "Change out of that and we'll go, okay?"

He left the changing room. After a glancing worriedly at Marron, Konni followed. Marron heard her call his name once, but it was faint and she couldn't make out what, if anything, came after. She stood alone under the fluorescent lights, replaying the scene in her mind. A kind of numbness overtook her.

_It's over. He hates me now. And it's all my fault…_

Staring at her bare toes poking out from the bottom of the dress, Marron tried her best not to drip tears on the beautiful, expensive fabric. She didn't succeed.

* * *

><p>They didn't speak when they left the store or as they walked down the street. Marron trailed behind Yamcha, whose hands were shoved in his pants' pockets. He did not acknowledge her, and for the most part Marron kept her eyes downward and toyed with the strap of her purse. Miserable thoughts chased each other around her head.<p>

_He hates me._

_He's a cheater._

_I hurt his feelings._

_He hurt mine._

After awhile the two came to one of the small parks scattered throughout the city. Without pausing Yamcha took the cement path leading through its middle. Marron tried to catch a glimpse of his face as they turned, but she couldn't, and they continued on as they had before, Marron taking two steps for every one of his and trying not to think too hard about what had happened. It was a little past noon, and since the sky was cloudless and the air warm, the park teemed with people: a child wailed in its mother's arms, a family of Nekojin sat having a picnic on the grass, and joggers wove past Marron and Yamcha as though they were stones in a river. Slowing down slightly, Yamcha glanced over his shoulder at his thirteen-year-old shadow. She couldn't read his face.

"You like hotdogs?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Good," he said, and led her on.

After stopping at a cherry-colored hotdog stand, where Yamcha paid for both of them before Marron could protest, he led her off the path and up a gently sloping grass hill that more or less marked the park's center. He took a seat near the top and handed Marron her foil-wrapped lunch. Smoothing her skirt, Marron sat next to him, and they ate in silence. The hotdog, she reflected as she finished, was quite possibly one of the best things she had ever eaten, almost as good as her father's sweet bean buns, which he only baked on special occasions—including, traditionally, on her birthday in place of a cake.

As if reading her thoughts, Yamcha said suddenly, "Your father is a great man, Marron."

Marron looked at him. Yamcha appeared to be watching a group of kids whose game of tag was fast degenerating into a wrestling free-for-all at the foot of the hill. Marron wasn't fooled, however, and Yamcha, seeming to sense this, closed his eyes.

"You know he once gave his life to help restore mine? Mine and Tien's and Chiaotzu's and Piccolo's? He went to an alien planet thousands of light-years away just to bring us back to life, and he died for it…and you know, if he hadn't, Goku might never have become a Super Saiyan. Your dad changed the universe, Marron. And he's the reason I'm here today."

He fell quiet for a moment. Then he opened his eyes again, staring into his lap expressionlessly. "After that mess with the Saiyans and Freeza, I got pretty bitter. Goku and Vegeta were so much stronger than all of us humans—hell, even Gohan, who was just a kid back then, had more raw power than we did. I was beyond outclassed and I knew it. But it took me getting stabbed through the chest by an android for me to really start getting scared, you know? You'd think that knowing what happens after you die would make you less afraid of things, but it didn't…not for me, anyway. It hit me while I lay there bleeding to death—your dad saved my ass that time, too—that it wasn't only my friends who were stronger than me now: it was my enemies, too. So I folded. Said I didn't want to fight anymore. And…" Yamcha's throat bobbed as he swallowed. "I haven't since.

"Your dad was in the same position as me. He had every reason to walk away and let Goku, Trunks, and other more powerful people handle things. I mean, he'd died _twice_. No one would've thought badly of him if he'd thrown in the towel. But he stood and fought. He gave it his all. And I guess fate rewarded him in the end: he got your mom and you out of that mess, which is a pretty fair deal, I think." Yamcha looked as if he were about to smile then, but he didn't. Instead he continued,

"My point is that I know you've grown up with one of the best men on the planet as a role model. And even though I want to be as good as he is, I'm not. I screwed up my life a long time before the Saiyans came calling; I've got no one to blame for that but myself. But what happened back there was beyond inappropriate. I should have thought more about what I was doing instead of going with the first idea I had. I shouldn't have put you in that position, Marron. I'm sorry." His eyes slid downward. "I never wanted you to hear that…"

A breeze passed them, picking up strands of Marron's ponytail and pushing them into her face. She paid them no mind. _He's embarrassed. Not just about the girlfriend thing, either. Why do I get the feeling he's never told anyone else what he just told me…? But all I can think about is how he might not hate me after all,_ she thought, seizing the hope as a drowning man might seize air. She wanted nothing more than to throw her arms around him, to apologize and to tell him that she'd never meant to hurt his feelings, that she realized he didn't regard her the same way he had his girlfriends—he'd just needed a gift for a girl, and that store was the first place he'd thought of—but something still nagged at her, holding her back. Marron swallowed.

"Why did you cheat on all those girls, Uncle Yamcha?" she whispered after a moment.

The older man flinched a little. "Damn. And here I was hoping you wouldn't have the guts to ask," he chuckled, self-mockery flavoring his joking words bitter. Marron made to apologize, but he silenced her with a look. "Don't. It's a fair question. You deserve an answer." He returned his gaze to the children below, who were now pelting each other with dirt clods and whatever else they could lay their hands on. Marron waited, afraid to so much as breathe lest she disturb his thoughts and make him change his mind. When he finally faced her, his gaze was hard.

"I cheated," he told her, "because I'm a cad. That's all there is to it. It wasn't Bulma's fault, or any of the other girls'. Like I said, I've never been half the man your father was—he probably hasn't so much as looked at another woman since he fell for your mom, and not only because she'd kick his ass if he did. Back then, when I was young, I just took whatever I wanted because I was strong and famous and selfish and I _could_. I was so cocky that I didn't think I would get caught, and even after I did I was too much of a coward to make myself own up to how I was hurting everyone around me." A pained look crossed his face then, and he tilted it toward the sky. "Vegeta…he's a bastard, no two ways about it. I highly doubt that he has a caring side buried under all that arrogance and contempt, no matter what Goku thinks. But for all that, he pretty much never makes excuses or pretends to think or feel something he doesn't; you always know where you stand with him. I think that's why Bulma chose him over me in the end." Yamcha's eyes found hers again. His lips quirked. "Saiyans. They're good for putting your faults in perspective. But yeah. I cheated because I was a weak and inconsiderate prick. Still am. I'm just old enough to realize it now."

Silence fell between them. Marron stared at him; for a long interval, she had no idea how to respond. "Uncle Yamcha…" she finally began, but was interrupted when Yamcha laid a hand on her head and told her quietly, with a forced smile,

"Never go out with a guy like me, okay, baby girl? We don't stop and we don't change. Cheating jerks will always be cheating jerks no matter who's involved. You deserve better than that. Promise me?" Not waiting for a reply, he ruffled her hair a bit. "Man, you really have grown, haven't you…? Your hair's gotten long, too."

Marron bit her lower lip. "Uncle Yamcha, I-"

"Aw, man, you're bleeding," interrupted the older man again. Marron tasted blood on her tongue. "Whoa, gusher! You must've re-opened the scab. Here, I've got a napkin."

"But, Uncle Yamcha—"

Paper tissue was suddenly pressed against her lip."Here. Now keep that there for a few minutes while I go get…"

"Uncle Yam—"

"…some antibiotic cream, it won't take a minute…"

Marron knocked the hand holding the napkin to the side and managed to seize his wrist. "Will you be quiet and _listen_ to me!" she cried.

The napkin fluttered into her lap. Yamcha had been half-rising as he'd spoken; now he looked at the thirteen-year-old girl as if she'd gone Super Saiyan. Marron seized her chance before he could recover:

"I don't think you're a jerk at all! I don't think you're a weak person, I don't think you're an inconsiderate person, and I don't think you haven't changed! You may have forgotten my birthday, but you took me to get a present even after I said no! You may not have taken me to the best place given the circumstances, but you were ready to buy me the most beautiful dress I've ever seen just because you thought it would make me happy! And you may not be a match for a Saiyan, but you can still fly faster than any bird and use your own energy to level mountains! And I know that if a bad guy somehow managed to defeat all the other fighters, you'd protect everybody who couldn't defend themselves even if you knew you couldn't win!" Tears were gathering in Marron's eyes, and she gripped Yamcha's wrist as tightly as she could, as though she could show him how much she believed in him by doing so. "And you may have cheated on Bulma and your other girlfriends, but I know that in the end you were the one who got the most hurt, and that if you could do it all over again, you'd make things right!" The thirteen-year-old gulped, blinking her eyes clear. "I'm so, so sorry for what I said earlier," she continued. "I was confused, and I didn't think. But I'm not upset at you now, and I know you aren't a bad person, Uncle Yamcha! I think you're one of the best! And I…I…" Marron's heartbeat throbbed loud in her ears. She gazed at the older man's stunned face. "I lo…"

Yamcha's head snapped to the side. Before Marron could react, he pounced on her, pushing them both to the ground. At the edge of her vision Marron saw a stone the size of a tennis ball whiz past where her head had been; it thumped against the side of the hill and bounced twice before coming to rest in a patch of weeds. Yamcha swore and got to his feet.

"Hey kids, watch where you're throwing those rocks! You almost hit someone up here!" he yelled down the hill at the warring children.

"We didn't throw anything!" one of them shot back, but their game stilled, and they all exchanged guilty glances.

Yamcha turned away with a growl. "Brats," he muttered through his teeth in annoyance. Marron sat up quickly. "You alright?"

She nodded, feeling slightly light-headed; she could still feel the ghost of his warm weight on top of her, and it made her heart and stomach flip. "Y-Yes."

"Good." He let out a long breath. "We should probably move before one of us gets nailed. My reflexes aren't what they used to be."

"Okay." She stood. A few stray tears had escaped down her cheeks, and she wiped them away while Yamcha gathered up the remains of their lunch. They walked to the peak of the hill, where Marron took a moment to look out onto the jewel-green park and the multicolored city beyond it. Everything looked so small from where she stood. She wondered if this was how the world looked to Kami, and how insignificant her problems might appear to anyone who stood so high. Pulling herself from her musings, she followed Yamcha down the opposite slope. It was less crowded on the other side, quieter, and after a short walk they sat at the edge of a glittering fountain that generated a cool, misting breeze on their backs. The sound of flowing water calmed Marron, and she and Yamcha people-watched wordlessly for a good minute. Then Yamcha spoke:

"You really meant what you said up there?"

Marron flushed, embarrassed at her emotional tangent. "Every word," she replied softly. When Yamcha didn't respond, she said, "You're my favorite uncle, Uncle Yamcha."

"Why?" demanded the scar-faced man, obviously speaking more harshly than he'd intended. "I'm nothing special. I didn't even remember your birthday, Marron. What reason could you possibly have to even care about me, let alone call me your favorite?"

Marron fisted her hands over her skirt. "Do you remember New Year's Eve five years ago?" she asked at length. "I was eight, and Bulma had a party at Capsule Corp, and no one had time for me. Everyone was fussing over Videl because she was pregnant and Bura because she was little and cute. Trunks and Goten were off on dates and my parents were too busy talking to everyone else to deal with me. So eventually I just started wandering around the building feeling sorry for myself. I remember I got it into my head that if I found the Dragon Radar, I could run away and use the Dragonballs to make myself prettier than Bura or anyone else, and then everyone would be sorry they'd ignored me." Smiling, Marron shook her head. "Stupid, right? So of course I got lost, because that place is huge. I was almost ready to give up and cry for my mom and dad when I passed by one of the sitting rooms and saw you there." Marron closed her eyes, recalling the scene. "It was dark. You were leaning up against a window with a glass in your hand, watching the snow fall. I remember that even though I couldn't see your face, I thought you looked even lonelier than me. So when you turned around and smiled and said hi, I asked you why you were sad. Do you remember what you said?"

Slowly, Yamcha nodded. "I told you, 'I want to dance, but I don't have anyone to dance with,'" he murmured. "And then you said…"

"That I would dance with you, but I that didn't know how, so you'd have to teach me. You laughed for the longest time at that. I didn't know why. To tell you the truth, I didn't figure it out till about an hour ago. I'm kind of bad with euphemisms." She blushed.

"Marron—" Yamcha started.

"But it didn't matter that you laughed at me, because afterwards you said okay, and you turned on the old radio in the corner and grabbed my hands, and we started dancing. You twirled me around and dipped me and tossed me up in the air like I was really small again, and we jumped around the room until I was giggling so hard there wasn't room for anything else inside me. Not loneliness. Not sadness. Only laughter." Marron opened her eyes. "Then we fell asleep on that huge couch. Mom and Dad had to come find me."

"I got told off for that later," remembered Yamcha.

"Because you didn't bring me back?"

"No," Yamcha corrected, "because I'd drunk almost a whole bottle of straight bourbon before you showed up. I was smashed as all get out while I was throwing you around like that." His eyes darkened. "I could've really hurt you, Marron."

"But you didn't," said Marron softly.

Yamcha shifted. "No. I didn't," he allowed.

The fountain burbled and rushed in circles behind them. "So ever since then," concluded Marron a bit hastily, "you've been my favorite. Because you were there for me when I was lost and alone, and you made me feel happy when I'd been upset." She took a breath. "You did that today, too."

Yamcha snorted. "Admit it, baby girl—you would probably have been better off if I hadn't run into you this morning. I'm kind of a walking disaster."

Marron's brow furrowed, and eyes flashing, she smacked him on the upper arm. "Shut up! You shouldn't talk that way!" she snapped. Her eyes immediately widened, however, and the hand she'd hit her uncle with moved reflexively in front of her open mouth. "Uncle Yamcha," she stammered, horrified at herself, "I am _so_ sorry…"

The older man took one look at her face and burst out laughing. His howls reverberated off the nearby hill, rolling and crashing through the park in waves. A couple, arm-in-arm, turned to stare at them, and three or four birds took to the sky from some nearby trees. Marron felt mortification and defensiveness grip her as Yamcha doubled over and slapped his knee. "It's not funny!" she protested.

"Your face…!" he gasped. "Your face… It was like you'd accidentally slapped _Shenron_ or something-!" And he fell back into hysterics. Face burning, Marron folded her arms and turned away with a pout, figuring he would stop in a minute or so. He didn't.

"It's not _that_ funny," she muttered. Then, louder, "I take it back. You're not my favorite uncle anymore."

Yamcha managed to get his laughter under control. He wiped his eyes, still snickering. "Aw, man. That sucks. _You're_ my favorite niece."

"I," said Marron primly, heart secretly leaping, "am not your niece, and you are not technically my uncle."

"Believe me, you wouldn't want to meet your real uncle," Yamcha muttered dryly to himself. Marron blinked, not sure she'd heard him correctly, but was distracted from the issue when Yamcha rose from his spot, bowed to one knee before her, and clasped her right hand in his. His face and tone fell solemn. "Forgive me, milady Marron. Is there no task that this sad knight in rusty armor can complete to regain your favor? No item, perhaps, apart from a gown, that you wish to receive on this occasion of your belated birthday, which I have been neglectful in honoring?"

Marron, unable to sustain her fake offense and too amused to be bashful, smiled and answered him with a benevolent air. "Verily, sir knight, I would not see you aggrieved. If the loss of your title pains you as greatly as you say, I could find it in myself to name a task which, when fulfilled, shall return your honor and restore your claim."

"But name it, milady, and it shall be done," replied Yamcha immediately.

At the honest, teasing look in his eyes and at what she was about to say, Marron averted her gaze and blushed a little. She dropped her noblewoman persona. "…Come and visit me more often? I remember when you used to stop by Kame House to play with me when I was younger. It was fun." She gave an awkward shrug before adding, "I…kind of missed you, Uncle Yamcha."

Yamcha looked vaguely surprised for a moment. Then his face softened into a smile. "I missed you too, baby girl," he said. "Of course I'll drop in—every chance I get. I don't want to be a nuisance to your parents, though."

"They won't mind! Dad loves it when people visit. And Mom…you know how she is. She grumbles, but I don't think it would bother her, not really."

"Alright, but I'm counting on you to keep her from throwing me out on my ear if and when she gets annoyed with me hanging around."

"Deal." Marron grinned and turned Yamcha's courtly grip on her fingers into a short, professional handshake. The former bandit laughed and stood, and following his lead, Marron rose from the edge of the fountain.

"What else?" asked Yamcha as they began to walk down the path once more, moving past street-sellers, entertainers, and pedestrians alike. "There's gotta be_ something_ else you want. I have a hard time believing that the company of a crusty old guy like me is worth a real present."

Though a very vocal part of Marron wanted to assure him that it was worth a 'real' present and much more besides, she simply shook her head and replied: "I told you I don't care about that sort of thing. It's fine."

A toddler ran by them. Yamcha grabbed Marron's elbow and pulled her out of the way of the harried-looking mother who followed. "I know, but I just feel…" he began, then paused, still holding onto the middle of her arm. His eyes had fixed onto one of the stalls further up the path.

"Uncle Yamcha? What's…?"

"Wait right here," said the former z-fighter, and hurried toward the distant booth without another word. _Not again!_ groaned Marron internally. Anxious, she rubbed where his fingers had curled around her elbow. _And I thought my father could be boneheaded. Are all boys like this?_

_Men, _corrected a part of her. _They're both men. He's older than your father, remember?_

_I wish I didn't…_ Too tired to consider its full implications, Marron shook the thought from her mind and disobeyed Yamcha's request by following him to the vendor's stall. It bore no sign indicating what it sold, and briefly Marron wondered how Yamcha had discerned it from so far away. She chalked it up to being yet another of the many "warrior things" she'd learned not to question over the years. _Super speed, super strength…add super sight to the list_, she thought a tad peevishly.

Yamcha was in the process of receiving a small wrapped package from the stall's proprietor when Marron reached him. He looked wholly unsurprised to see her when he turned round. "Hey," he grinned.

"Hey," she replied, her annoyance at his running off evaporating. She had the feeling that even his Wolf Fang Fist attack paled in comparison to the precision, skill, and overwhelming power of his smile; it was clearly his most potent weapon.

Abruptly she found his newly-acquired parcel thrust under her nose.

"For you," Yamcha told her.

Marron took it mechanically. "Uncle Yamcha…"

"Don't think of it as a birthday present. Think of it as a I'm-sorry-I-was-a-bonehead, thanks-for-the-pep-talk present." Again, that damned smile. "It's already paid for, so you can't say no. Open it!"

_He looks so excited_, she thought, observing him out of the corner of her eye as she untied the ribbon and unwrapped the plain brown tissue paper from the gift, _like a little kid_. It made her feel guilty. She _had_ been a little harsh with her constant refusals, hadn't she? _I never meant to throw his offers back in his face. I hope—_

The last of the paper fell away then, and Marron's thought process sputtered and died.

"Oh," she whispered.

It was a hair clip, and it was beautiful. While its silvery body appeared to be only about two inches long, atop its flat ovular surface was mounted an artful nest of oceanic miscellany: tumbled blue and green sea-glass shards, little brown clamshells that flared like wings, thin netting wrapped in silver wire, and, strewn amidst them all, tiny gray-white freshwater pearls. A small dried starfish crowned the display. Marron stared.

"The lady called it a fascinator, heck if I know what that means," Yamcha was saying. "Your dad mentioned that you were all about the ocean when we last talked, so I thought you'd like it. You won't be able to wear it while you swim, of course, but the saleslady said the shells and stuff were attached with a special adhesive, so it'll be pretty sturd…whoa!"

Marron trembled as she hugged him. She was tall for her age, but he was taller; her chin fell just below his navel, her forehead just below his breastbone. She wanted to speak—_Thank you; it's beautiful_; _I'll wear it every day—_ but found she was sniffling too hard. Shuddering, she drew in a deep breath and squeezed his waist tighter. _I'm such a crybaby. Sorry, Uncle Yamcha._

Not speaking for a long moment, Yamcha laid a hand between her shoulder blades.

"Hey," he said gently after a beat. "You ready to head back?"

Marron managed to hiccup and nod. She held onto Yamcha for as long as she dared before, after a couple seconds had passed, she let go of his waist.

"Alright," said Yamcha, "let's head back. But first…" He took the barrette from her hand. "Take down your ponytail. Okay, one sec…" Leaning down, he gathered a section of hair above her left ear, and, twisting it slightly, inserted the clip. For all the decor it hosted, the barrette was surprisingly light, and its teeth held Marron's hair securely. Yamcha straightened and winked. "As pretty as you are. I think I made the right choice, yeah?"

Marron bit her lip to keep it from trembling and nodded vigorously in lieu of a reply. She wiped her eyes. Understanding, Yamcha took her free hand.

"Let's go," he said, and they did.

* * *

><p>Marron eventually managed to thank him as, afternoon fading into evening, they sped over the ocean in Yamcha's bright red air car. "The barrette's beautiful. I love it," she told him. Yamcha flashed a smile. He wore dark sunglasses and steered the car one-handed, which fascinated Marron; she'd never seen anyone drive that way. "You didn't have to get it for me, though…"<p>

"I knew that. You told me enough times." At this, Marron blushed. "Don't worry about it. Like I said, if it makes you feel bad, don't think of it as a birthday gift. Though I do think turning thirteen is reason enough to spoil a nice girl like you; it's a big deal! You're a teenager now, Marron."

She thought about that, much as she had on her birthday. All things considered, she didn't really want to be a teenager; the concept seemed inherently dangerous to her, an unstable, chaotic state of being for which she felt entirely unprepared. But when she considered how happy she was with this day despite its chaos and instability, the situation began to take on a different shape in her mind. _I learned a lot about…everything, really. Myself, the world, him—nothing was how I thought it would be. And I've always liked Uncle Yamcha, but I don't think I ever saw him as a real person before today. It doesn't make sense, but… I think I definitely understand him better now. _It gave her a warm feeling, and she realized that while still she wasn't exactly eager to run headlong into being a teenager, having that status at least meant that she was one step closer to becoming an adult—one step closer to standing on equal ground with Yamcha. Of course it was also easy to view her current position as a catch-22: being thirteen meant she'd be taking on new burdens, leaving old joys behind; yet it would be a long time before she was old enough to express her feelings for the person she cared about. Which was discouraging and frustrating and made her feel as though she was being held just beneath the surface of the water, where she could see the sun but not breathe the air. But she was moving forward and up, however slowly, and that was better than nothing. For him, she was willing to wait, and to use the time given to her to become someone he could respect and maybe even love.

_I am thirteen. I am in seventh grade. I am a teenager, and in five years I'll graduate high school and become an adult_, she reflected, touching her hairclip and watching Yamcha out of the corner of her eye.

_I can hold my breath._


	3. The Rabbit and the Lion

**Early February, age 13**

Her world was blue.

It wavered in front of her, paradoxically still and perpetually in motion. She, herself, sat cross-legged and motionless at the bottom of it. Her ponytail, bound at three different points down its length in order to keep her hair together, drifted above her head like a wheat stalk in a slow breeze. Blood hummed through her veins, providing an undercurrent to the steady double beat of her heart and the vague, echoing slap of water against the upper edges of the pool. Though they stung she kept her eyes open, observing first the navy lining that rose up around her on all sides, rendering her surroundings darker and more surreal than they actually were, then glancing up through six or eight feet of water at the silvery light that flickered and danced over the pool's surface. Experimentally she released a small air bubble from her mouth; it glimmered to the top of the water like a crystalline butterfly before vanishing into nothingness with a tiny burp. To her surprise, there came a response: something small and bright plopped into the water and began to float down toward her; Marron pushed off the bottom of the pool and, seizing the object in one hand, kicked her way back up to the real world.

She broke the surface with a deep breath, tasting the thick, lemon-bitter air of her school's indoor swimming area. Crouched at one side of the pool, Jurai cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Hiding from me?" she accused. Marron shook her head and swam over to her friend, placing the dropped earring on the tile before her. Jurai's countenance brightened. "Awesome. I would have hated to lose that."

"I might not have gotten to it in time," Marron told her reproachfully.

"I had faith in your retrieval skills." Without rising from her squat, Jurai threaded the earring back through one of the many holes in her right ear. She held a towel between her knees. "You're way better than those dolphins and orcas and whatever at the water park. They oughta put you in a show. 'Fuck Oxygen: the Sensational Skills of Marron the Mermaid.' That's what I'd call it, anyway."

Hauling herself out of the water, Marron accepted the towel from her friend. "I'm not a dolphin," was all she could think to reply. The other girl stood smiling. Her hair was in its typical style, pulled back so tightly from her face that it resembled an inky cap with a long, heavy rope hanging down from the back.

"Coulda fooled me," she replied. "How long were you down there this time?"

"Not long. I can't get used to all that chlorine." Marron took down her ponytail, threaded the elastics around her wrist, and wrapped the towel around herself. She blinked in an attempt to dispel the stinging chemicals from her eyes.

"Sucks, man. Don't hurt your vision or anything," Jurai slugged her playfully on the arm as they made their way to the locker room. "So, skipping gym and sneaking into the highschoolers-only pool, huh? You delinquent."

"I hate volleyball," muttered Marron, a bit of guilt coloring her defiant words. Jurai sensed it and said,

"Hey, you don't see me out there, do ya? But in my case, it's just 'cause I hate Coach Agasuto. That woman is, like, perpetually on the rag."

Marron hesitated to join in bashing their teacher. "She's not so bad…"

"She's a tightassed bitch and you know it! I have to, like, physically restrain myself from punching her every time she opens her stupid mouth. That's why I skipped. It's a matter of safety." Jurai crossed her arms and nodded sagely. "For her."

As she snickered, Marron felt an abrupt wave of gratitude for the other girl's friendship, a phenomenon which should have been impossible considering how opposite the she and Jurai appeared at face value. Despite her desirable height, blonde hair, and blue eyes, Marron had plain features and a slightly nervous look about her. She'd never had a close friend before she'd met Jurai, though she'd never made any enemies or rubbed anybody the wrong way, either; the only negative things her classmates could say about Marron were that she sometimes came off as a goody-goody and that her natural quietude made her seem stuck-up. Most people simply wrote her off as overly shy and boring if they bothered to consider her at all. Jurai, on the other hand, most people found impossible to ignore. Opinionated and vocal, she had dark hair, pale skin, and the short, muscular body of a gymnast. Her gold-brown eyes were catlike and expressive, and they glittered and shone as brightly as the flashy bangles, anklets, and other assorted pieces of costume jewelry that she delighted in wearing even though the school staff frowned on such things. Jurai did acrobatics in winter, ran track in spring, and was friendly and decent in school. Yet for all that, Jurai was also unpopular, mostly due to her loud mouth and an incident that had occurred in the sixth grade: upon being rejected by the boy she'd had a crush on, Jurai had delivered unto him the kind of beatdown one usually only encountered at the Tenkaichi Budokai, leaving her would-be boyfriend with a broken nose, two black eyes, and multiple cuts and bruises from her ringed fingers. In the end she'd come out worse for it, though; virtually all of the boys and a good portion of the girls in their class now considered Jurai to be something of a psycho, and they avoided her at all costs. Jurai had made do with her upperclassmen friends from the track team until Marron had come to school on the first day of seventh grade wearing the barrette Yamcha had given her. With a shriek, Jurai had all but tackled Marron in the hall between classes:

"Where did you get that adorable hair pin?" she'd demanded, smiling hugely in the face of Marron's abject terror. It was the start of an as-yet beautiful friendship. Bullied into going to the park with Jurai after school so she could show her exactly where the vendor's booth was located, Marron had found that once she'd gotten accustomed to the sheer volume of Jurai's voice and presence, she genuinely enjoyed her company. They'd been close ever since.

Now, Marron finished rinsing off in a locker room shower while Jurai changed from her school uniform into a gymnastics leotard. "So, you wanna hear the latest rumor?" the dark-haired girl called over the burble of water down the drain. Marron shut off the tap and began drying herself with a fresh towel. Her voice was slightly muffled behind the curtains that separated the showers from the rest of the changing area.

"Sure."

"Apparently we're lesbians now. I seduced you with my womanly charms."

Marron, who had been squeezing the excess water from her hair, nearly fell over in shock. "Wh-what?" she cried. Jurai laughed, and Marron marveled inwardly at her amused nonchalance. Having spent most of her school career in relative obscurity, the blonde was unused to people talking about her behind her back or otherwise, and this was the first time since she'd begun associating with Jurai that the class gossips had included in her in their wild rumors. Of course Marron knew intellectually that it didn't matter what other people thought of you—her father had told her as much time and time again—but it was one thing to know it and another thing to suddenly have to apply the belief to her own life. She pursed her lips and tried to wrap her mind around this new development. Jurai continued,

"I know, right? When I first heard it I was like, 'the hell?' but it kind of makes sense. We're too fabulous for the boys, after all." Jurai sighed dramatically. "Still, I can't help but mourn the fact that this probably means I won't get a guy this year, either. I suppose I'll just have to resign myself to searching elsewhere if I want to find a man who's ready for some Jurai-lovin'." When Marron didn't reply, Jurai's tone grew more serious. "Hey, Mar."

"Yeah?"

"It doesn't freak you out that people are saying that shit, does it? 'Cause if it does bother you, and you don't want to hang out as much, that's cool." Jurai couldn't fully suppress her reluctance at the prospect. Marron could hear the snap of the sweatpants she wore over her leotard as she knocked her ankles together agitatedly.

"It doesn't! Well, I mean…" With a pause, Marron gazed up at the gray concrete ceiling and gathered her thoughts. "It does freak me out a little. But I'm not looking for a boyfriend right now, and you're one of the best friends I've ever had, so… I think it would be stupid to let a little bit of gossip ruin that. So, um. Yeah. I don't mind staying friends if you don't," she concluded.

To her relief, Marron could detect a grin in Jurai's eventual response: "'Course I wanna stay friends. Sheesh. After that little speech I'm considering going bi for you."

"You don't have to do that," Marron said hastily.

Jurai cackled. "Put on your clothes before I ravage you in my lesbian lust!" she commanded.

Laughing, Marron obeyed, dressing in the outfit she'd piled on a shelf just outside the shower curtain before emerging from the bathing area with a shiver. Suddenly bereft of warm water and steam, her skin dimpled when it came into contact with the locker room's chilly air, making the fine hairs on her arms stand at attention. She dumped her used towels in the laundry bin reserved for school property. Meanwhile Jurai sat doing stretches on the locker room floor. She glimpsed Marron mid-split.

"Whoa! What are you all fancied up for?" she asked, taking in her friend's long, flowing skirt and blouse with an impressed and inquisitive smirk.

Marron rummaged through her school bag, which sat on a wooden bench between the lockers. "I'm not fancy yet. I still need to dry my hair. And put on some shoes. And a sweater." _Books, pencils, bus pass, ID_… She emerged with a small hairdryer and a pair of socks, the latter of which she pulled on as Jurai's eyebrow climbed skyward. "Why are you staring at me like that…?" asked Marron nervously.

"Not looking for a boyfriend, huh? That wouldn't be because you already _have_ one and never told me, would it, Marron?" Only Jurai could affect such predatory curiosity with one foot looped behind her head. "Is that where you go every Tuesday after school? On a _date_?"

Momentarily uncomprehending, Marron blinked before flushing and shaking her head so hard that her damp hair flung water droplets onto the grimy tile floor. "It's nothing like that! He's just a friend of my father's! I've known him ever since I was little, and he lives near here, so…quit that!" Jurai was making kissing noises with her puckered lips. Marron stamped her foot. "I'm serious, Jurai."

"So am I. Just 'cause he's your dad's friend doesn't mean you aren't dating him."

"He's almost forty years older than me," Marron told her, forcing her expression to remain neutral and to not betray the way her heart sank as she said it. She'd thought that statement would settle things, but Jurai only asked,

"Is he hot?"

Marron goggled at her. "Jurai!"

The dark-haired girl shrugged. "Eh, I say it doesn't matter how much older a guy so long as he's not all wrinkly and shit. _That's_ just gross."

Marron rolled her eyes, plugged the blow-dryer into an outlet, and switched it on. Over its dull roar Jurai yelled, "You never answered my question! Is! He! _Hot_?"

Feigning deafness, Marron gestured helplessly to the whirring dryer. A pout twisted over Jurai's lips. "Bitch! If I didn't have to work out today, I'd stalk you and see for myself!" she threatened. Marron grinned and nodded as if she'd been unable to hear what Jurai had said. Jurai flipped her off good-naturedly; the ring on her middle finger gleamed, and, used to this type of antic by now, Marron couldn't help but laugh. Jurai soon joined in with her, and as a peace offering, she French-braided Marron's hair into two pigtails once the blonde girl was done drying it. She used Marron's barrette to pin a loose strand of hair back from her forehead.

"Go get 'im," Jurai said when she'd finished, slapping her friend on the back as Marron slid on dark boots and a blue sweater. Marron took up her schoolbag and replied:

"Thanks, Jurai. I'll see you tomorrow!"

"Bring pictures of your dad's hot friend!" Jurai called after her as Marron departed through the locker room's back door, which let out at the south side of the building that housed the swimming pool. She giggled to herself at Jurai's comment and glanced about. Sad patches of grass with blades as stiff and lifeless as old thorns struggled to overtake the hard brown turf that stretched around the gymnasium like a barren moat. The air around her was frigid and gray. Bracing herself against the stinging winter wind, Marron rounded the corner of the building and made for the school gates at a brisk trot. She shrugged her backpack more securely onto her shoulder and stuck her already-cold fingers underneath her arms in an attempt to warm them. _I should have brought gloves_, she thought ruefully, glancing up at the ashen winter sky the like of which never graced Kame House's horizon. _Or a parka. Do I even own a parka? Do I even own gloves? It's definitely colder than last year; I'm pretty sure this is a record low temperature for the city or something._ Judging by how quickly her fellow students had vacated the campus rather than loitering outside as many of them were wont to do even on chilly days, her peers agreed with her. As she reached the school gates, Marron checked her waterproof wristwatch. She breathed a little sigh of relief. It was ten after three. _Good, I'm early. I would have hated to make him wait in this cold._ She stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the school and turned, intending to take up a post against one of the stone pillars on either side of the gate, but she found that someone else had beaten her to it. The someone in question saluted her.

"Hey, baby girl."

"Uncle Yamcha!" Marron's eyes lit up in delight. She scurried over to him, noting his cable knit sweater and his brown corduroy jacket, his khaki pants and his easy smile. Worriedly she asked, "You haven't been waiting too long, have you?"

Yamcha shook his head. His hair had grown longer over these past three months; it curled slightly at his neck and brow. "Nah. Five minutes tops. I felt like being early for once. Anyway, I love this weather, so I didn't mind hanging out for a bit."

"Really?" Marron couldn't hide her surprise at Yamcha's latter claim. "But you lived in the desert for so long…"

"That's why I love it. I've had my fair share of heat," said Yamcha. At Marron's doubtful mien, his smile widened, displaying teeth that would have been perfect but for a single missing one near the back left of Yamcha's upper jaw. "I'm more worried about you. You look way colder than I am right now," he observed.

"Oh, I'm not," lied Marron reflexively, not wanting to worry him. Too late she realized how her shoulders were up around her ears and her hands still tucked into her armpits. "I just forgot my gloves is all. It's not a big deal."

Before she even realized he'd moved, the backs of Yamcha's fingers found her wind-flushed cheek. "Hmm. You feel pretty chilly to me," he said in a tone both teasingly suspicious and mildly admonishing. Marron froze, spine going ramrod straight as most of her higher brain functions shut down. Her eyes went wide. _Fingers. Face. Help._

She had thought herself over these sorts of reactions. Yamcha, she had discovered over the past few months, seemed to value tactile communication as highly as he did verbal, which made sense when Marron considered how much of his life he'd dedicated to an art that hinged on bodily contact. He touched everybody; whenever he joined her family for dinner (which Yamcha did fairly often nowadays in keeping with both Marron's request for regular visits and with Kuririn's subsequent invitation to come share meals with the Kame House residents anytime), Yamcha would spend the evening patting her father on the shoulder, nudging Master Roshi in the ribs, and taking her mother's hand with gallant thanks for her hospitality when he felt like risking #18's annoyance. Even Umigame often received a flipper-to-palm high-five prior to the scarred man's departures. Understanding that physical contact was par for the course in almost all of Yamcha's social interactions, Marron had been able to build up some immunity to the random touches he often bestowed on her; his offhand brushes, hand-grasping, noogies and half-hugs no longer sent her into complete overdrive as they once had. But the delicacy and deliberation of this particular touch caught her off guard. She felt hot blood surge into her cheeks as she instinctively averted her eyes from his.

_Do something!_ her inner self pleaded._ Do something or he'll notice you're freaking out!_

Marron reached up and carefully moved his hand from her face. "I'm really okay," she rasped; she had intended to be reassuring, but the words came off strained and unsteady. She released the ex-fighter's wrist. When she finally dared to glance back up at him, she found Yamcha surveying her through sober eyes.

"Whenever you say that," he told her, "I always know you really aren't."

Concern, confusion and embarrassment frothing through her, Marron tried to reply but found no words to do so. Instead she shifted her weight from one booted foot to the other and did her best to not look completely pathetic. She must have failed, because Yamcha's next move was to shrug off his heavy, flannel-lined jacket. "Here. Wear this for now."

"I couldn't…" As if on cue, a fierce wind rolled past them, snapping at Marron with ice-sharp teeth, and she gave a convulsive shudder. Yamcha bent to her height, draped the coat over her shoulders, and, in a move that surprised the thirteen-year-old, winked.

"I insist. Your mother would grind me into dust and jelly if I let you catch cold on my watch." Marron gave a short, horrified giggle at the mental image that conjured. Encouraged, Yamcha nodded solemnly, all traces of melancholy vanishing. "It's true. She'd pulverize my bones and scatter them to the four winds. Toss my guts into the ocean for the fish to nibble on at their leisure. Turn my skull into a wine goblet and my skin into a tea cozy…"

"Uncle Yamcha, that's gross!" cried Marron, but she was laughing outright now. Yamcha grinned.

"Speaking of tea," he said, "I know your dad's probably fixing you an amazing meal tonight as usual, but I've been jonesing for dim sum all day, and there's this great little tea house near here. What do you say to spoiling your appetite?"

Marron regarded at him incredulously. "You just told me all that stuff about guts and skulls and now you're asking me if I'm hungry?"

"Fair enough," chuckled Yamcha, raising his palms in a _you got me, but hold on_ gesture, "but believe me when I say you'll forget all about that once you get a whiff of this place. It's the best in West City, no contest."

Placing her backpack on the ground in order to thread her arms through the jacket's sleeves—it really was quite comfortable—Marron considered. She bit her lip. "You're going to pay for my meal even if I say no, aren't you."

"Yep," confirmed Yamcha cheerfully. He snatched up Marron's schoolbag. "And carry your stuff even if you tell me you can get it and that it's no big deal."

"Uncle Yamcha! It's really not!" Marron made a grab for her pack, but Yamcha, laughing, slung it over his shoulder and offered her his hand instead.

"Come on, baby girl. Let's get some dumplings," he said.

* * *

><p>The teahouse in question was small and crowded, run down and hidden behind a row of far more hospitable-looking buildings. Its exterior had been bright red once, but the paint had long since cracked and faded to a dull pinkish tinge over gray wood. The shrubs lining its front were unruly and overgrown, and potential customers had to practically kick the stubborn door open if they wanted access to the restaurant. But Yamcha had not lied: its interior smelled divine. Marron hadn't been particularly hungry even before Yamcha had mentioned jellied organs and powdered bones, but when she stepped inside the teahouse her mouth began to water. She scented the air, identifying sweet beans, garlic, broiling meat and baking dough, sauces and herbs and, of course, tea. Her stomach growled.<p>

"Two, please," Yamcha told the hostess, who, despite the fact that the restaurant seemed to be serving half of West City at the time, led them right away to a little table shoved into one corner. Yamcha hung Marron's book bag over the back of his chair. As they sat he asked, "Don't you want to take off that jacket?"

_Never_. "I'm still a little cold," Marron lied, flushing. She had to raise her voice over the storm that was the crowd of customers surrounding them: a low roaring downpour of indistinct conversation punctuated by the bright crash of utensils striking dishes. "You don't mind if I keep wearing it…?"

"Of course not, baby girl. That's what it's for. Hey, you mind if I order for both of us? They don't have menus here; you kind of have to know what you want ahead of time."

Marron nodded her consent, eager to move the conversation away from the jacket if only to alleviate her guilt at having fibbed in order to keep it for a while longer. A high, bubbly voice interrupted any reply she might have made, however:

"Is that Yamcha sitting in my section?"

He turned in his chair. "Mei!" he greeted. A waitress in a bright pink qipao dress drew up to their table. Her lips were the color of a maraschino cherry, her eyes expertly shadowed and lined, and her mint-green hair done up in a messy bun with red chopsticks stuck through it. She was slim and beautiful, as bright-eyed and exotic as the women on the covers of the fashion magazines Marron sometimes flipped through in bookstores and supermarkets. "What's up?" Yamcha asked her.

Mei pouted. "Oh, only that my life's been incredibly boring because _someone_ hasn't visited me in ages!" she exclaimed, eyes glimmering with something that Marron couldn't identify. Anticipation? "Where on earth have you been? You know it's incredibly rude to leave a lady hanging, Yamcha."

"Oh, here and there. You know me; I can never stay in one place for too long."

"Well, aren't we the lone wolf?" purred Mei, picking invisible lint from his shoulder with her slender, manicured fingers. "It's so good to see you back. I guess I'll have to keep a closer eye on you from now on so you don't wander off again, hmm?"

If Yamcha paid any mind to her touch, he did not show it (For Marron's part, a little voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like Jurai was snarling, _Kick her in the kneecap and run_! She quashed it frantically, ashamed of herself). "Good to be back," he told Mei, then indicated Marron, who hastily pushed away her own thoughts. "This is Marron. She's the daughter of one of my best friends. I'm treating her to an after-school snack."

Mei glanced her way. Feeling guilty for her reflexive antipathy toward the woman, Marron forced a polite smile. "It's nice to meet you," she said. Mei returned her attention to Yamcha without so much as a nod in her direction.

"I thought the elementary schools let out at four!" she twittered. "Yamcha, are you encouraging delinquency in a young mind? Naughty man."

_Elementary school?_ Marron thought. She flushed as offense and embarrassment warred within her and straightened, trying not to let her self-consciousness show. _I…I don't really look that young, do I…?_

Yamcha gave a chuckle. Marron noticed him subtly shift his shoulder out from under Mei's hand. "You need your eyes checked, Mei. Marron's in junior high," he said.

"Oh!" Mei scrutinized Marron, who started a little when she noticed a calculating gleam in her eye. "I'm so sorry," she said, directly addressing the thirteen-year-old for the first time since she'd appeared at their table. "I saw those pigtails and assumed you were still a child. Aren't most girls your age wearing makeup by now? You should try a little; it certainly couldn't hurt!"

Marron's face reddened further. The waitress continued, tone honeyed, "Maybe you're the one who should get your eyes checked, Yamcha. People are going to talk if they see you out and about with a little ragamuffin like her when you usually land much more attr…I mean, mature girls. She looks so _scrawny_ in that jacket; next time, you should probably wear something that fits a bit better, sweetie. You don't want people thinking you're a hobo, after all!"

All Marron wanted at that moment to shrink into Yamcha's coat until there was nothing left for the waitress to intimidate. _Why is she being so mean_? she wondered helplessly._ I…I should say something back, but I can't think of anything… What should I say? What should I do?_

_Kneecap and run_, prompted the Jurai-voice in her head. Marron did not heed it, mostly because Yamcha spoke up then:

"It's not her coat. It's mine," he told Mei. Something in his voice drew Marron's glance; she found Yamcha's features stony and threatening under the bright teahouse lights. "And, you know, I just remembered why I haven't come to eat here in a while—the customer service in this place is lousy."

Marron and Mei's eyes widened in unison. Mei forced a laugh—it sounded like a deflating balloon—and touched Yamcha's upper arm, placating. "Yamcha, you're so funny! You didn't think I actually _meant_—"

"Take your hand off me," suggested Yamcha quietly.

Mei did. She possessed enough intelligence not to speak while or after she laid her hand by her side.

"We'd like the usual dim sum, some cinnamon and chrysanthemum tea, and another waitress to bring them," Yamcha told her. He looked to Marron. "Anything you want in particular?"

"No," she managed to reply.

Yamcha beamed, though the hardness in his eyes did not fade. "Okay then. You can go now, Mei," he said.

Marron had never personally witnessed the Saiyans' godlike speed, but she was willing to bet that even Goku in the heat of battle could not move as fast as Mei did to get away from their table then. When she'd vanished into the teeming crowd of waiters and customers, Yamcha and Marron both slumped in their chairs and let out sighs of marked relief. Yamcha rested his elbows on the table and pressed his fingers against his eyes and forehead, kneading the skin and muscles beneath them, while Marron, once she'd recovered from Yamcha's sudden shift in demeanor, lowered her gaze to her lap and reflected miserably on her cowardice.

"I'm sorry," she murmured after a minute.

Yamcha removed his hands from his face, blinking tiredly. "For what, baby girl?" His voice was weary but gentle. Marron felt her love for him like a physical pain then, to a point at which tears gathered behind her eyes. Forcing them away, she said,

"I…I should have said something to her myself. I shouldn't have let her bother me." She twisted her napkin in her hands. "I was…weak. I always cause you problems, Uncle Yamcha."

Shaking his head, Yamcha responded, "Mei was my problem a long time before you came in, baby girl. I said those things for my own reasons. She wouldn't have acted that way toward you if I hadn't been here, so really, I'm the one who should be apologizing to you." A far-away cast came into Yamcha's gaze. "She never used to be that bad…"

"Did you two…date, once?" Marron asked hesitantly, observing him through a few wisps of blonde hair that had escaped from her pigtails and hairclip.

Yamcha made a short noise that might have been a chuckle. "Well… I wouldn't call it dating, and I wouldn't say it was only once, either."

Marron blushed. "I didn't mean…"

"I know what you meant." He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "I was trying to make a joke. A bad one. But the answer to your question is yes; we were together years ago. She was my last-" Yamcha paused and cut himself off with a wave of his hand. "My point is it's not your fault, Marron. And just because you didn't know how to react to Mei doesn't mean you're weak."

"It's not just that," Marron blurted and felt shame burrow through her like a malignant worm. "I…I feel like I'm scared of everything. My dad tried to teach me how to fly when I was younger—I'm not sure if you know that. But I never did because I was afraid I'd mess up and fall. I wish I could get over it, but… It's not just flying, either. That's how most things are for me. I haven't even gone out for the swim team because I'm scared of losing and letting people down. And I never say what I'm thinking because I don't think people will like me if I do. I'm really a big coward," she confessed miserably.

Yamcha did not speak for a moment. He propped his jaw in his palm and considered her carefully. Then, tone thoughtful, he said, "This is strange coming from you, baby girl. Weren't you the one who told me I wasn't a coward even though I was afraid to fight Cell and Buu and the others?"

"That's different," protested the girl. "I'm afraid of, of everything! Even stuff I haven't done." She gesticulated in an attempt to drive this point home, indicating the world at large. "I'm afraid of people, flying, standing up for myself…"

"You weren't afraid to stand up to me back at the store, with the dress."

"I… I _know_ you…"

"Shouldn't knowing someone make it harder to tell them what you really think of them?" posited Yamcha.

"I don't..."

"But you did it anyway."

Marron ducked her head and mumbled, "I just got mad. I wasn't thinking."

"You weren't worrying, you mean." Yamcha said. "You're a worrywart, Marron. You worry about messing up and you worry about what people think of you, you worry about money and you worry about making me wait on you for two minutes. That doesn't make you a weakling. From where I'm sitting, it makes you a nervous thirteen-year-old." He tilted his head and gave a shrug. "I'm not saying you should live your life in fear or anything, but I think that labeling yourself a coward just because you don't feel confident in yourself yet is only asking for trouble, you know?"

Marron hesitated. "I…I guess…" she said, but already she was worrying he might be wrong. What if she only worried _because_ she was a coward? What if what Yamcha had described was in fact a symptom of something larger rather than a trait on its own?

Sensing her dilemma, Yamcha changed tack. "You said at the park that day that you didn't think I was a coward because if push came to shove, I'd put myself on the line for the people I cared about. What about you? Say a bad guy came to your house and your mom and dad couldn't beat him. Would you run away to get help, or would you stay and try to help them yourself?"

Involuntarily Marron's thoughts unmoored themselves, drifting through a decade-old sea of recollection in search of an answer to his question. The noise around her faded, replaced by the memory of a smooth, dark, terrible voice:

"_Now…which person should I eat first?"_

_Eyes black where they should have been white with irises the red of old blood, mouth opening like a gash to reveal glittering fangs and a sickly blue-green tongue set deep in its massive dark jaw, it was every night-phantom the sunlight chased away, every monster that she'd pulled back her bed-skirt to find wasn't there, every creature in the fables meant to caution children not only that strangers could never be trusted, but that sometimes they hurt you no matter what you did. It was enough to terrify her in and of itself, but the thing that made the creature Majin Buu horrific to a point at which her young mind could no longer even hold the fear it elicited was that her mother, too, seemed afraid of it. Marron was young and her world was small, built on a tiny island and a few simple truths: she loved and was loved by her parents, her parents would always keep her from harm, and her mother was not afraid of anything. The third of those truths was giving way with the irregular trembles she felt as she cowered against her mother's leg, and she could sense with all her childish intuition that the second one was about to follow. _

"_Mommy, Daddy, make him go away…!" she whimpered before breaking down into petrified sobs. Through these she caught snatches of her father muttering, but she could not hear what he said. Then, her mother yelled, desperate and raw and _afraid_-_

"Kuririn!_"_

_-and she was in her mother's arms and they were running through a door and up the stairs, and everything was happening so fast and she looked for her father over her mother's shoulder, past Bulma and Videl, but she saw only Uncle Yamcha there, head angled frantically to the side in a desperate attempt to see what had transpired behind them; he turned and their eyes met for the briefest moment before white-hot energy struck her and her mother screamed and she screamed and her world went pink and black and she knew no more…_

"Marron?"

Marron emerged from the memory to find herself ga_z_ing into the same eyes that had marked the end to the most fearful experience in her life. For a brief, heart-stopping instant her brain struggled to differentiate between past and present, remembrance and reality, but the moment passed, her heart calmed, and her anxiety ebbed. The clamor of the tea-house flowed back to her as she released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

Yamcha regarded her with puzzled alarm. "Are you alright?"

"Yes. Sorry. I was just thinking." She splayed her hands on the table in front of her, studying her ragged, bitten nails and the smudges of graphite on her right pinky finger. After a long interval she said, "I…I wouldn't be able to do anything against whatever could hurt my parents, but I don't think I could leave anyone I loved to die alone." She swallowed. "I remember Majin Buu. Not well, but I remember Mom running, and I remember… dying. I don't want to die again. Not because of a monster like that. I really, really don't, but…" Her eyelids closed. "I would rather die with someone I loved, the way I did with Buu, than die running away, all by myself. And even if running away meant I would survive, I don't think I could take it knowing I left people I cared about behind. It would be worse than dying." She blinked and added quickly, "O-Of course, if they _told _me to go, I'd do what they said. My Mom and Dad would probably feel really guilty if I died on their account, and they've told me more than once that if anything ever happens to them, they want me to keep on living no matter what. And if someone who could help was right outside or really close, I'd probably try to get them, because that just makes sense, so, I…I guess it would depend?" She wilted a little. "Um. That wasn't really a great answer, was it?"

"It was, Marron," the former z-fighter responded. For a moment he wore that same enigmatic expression he had when they'd spoken about money in the parking garage those few months ago, the look that made him seem as if he both understood her better than she did and as if he were still trying to figure her out. Then he cracked a grin. "You've confirmed I'm right, anyway."

Marron would have been overcome by self-consciousness had she seen the way her desperate, searching eyes bespoke how highly she valued Yamcha's opinion yet how unsure she was of her own qualities. "…But how can you be sure?"

"You're the daughter of warriors," Yamcha said simply. "You've inherited more from your parents than #18's hair and Kuririn's nerves. You won't die a coward's death, Marron, and you won't live a coward's life. They raised you better than that, even if you don't realize it. Trust me. I know."

Marron absorbed this in silence, and Yamcha let her. His attention flicked to the side after about half a minute of quiet. "Finally, food."

Short, curvy, and pleasant-looking, their new waitress set a basket of dumplings and two small teapots, one made of cast-iron, the other of glass, before them. High on Yamcha's reassurance and finally beginning to believe the she was not as pathetic as she'd thought she was up till now, Marron drew in a breath when she noticed the contents of the glass teapot. "Pretty! They're real flowers!" she exclaimed.

"You've never had chrysanthemum tea?" Yamcha asked as the waitress departed.

She shook her head. "Not like this. Oh!" Remembering her manners, Marron grasped the iron kettle and, holding the lid in place with her other hand, filled Yamcha's teacup.

"You don't have to do that, baby girl."

Marron shrugged bashfully. "You pay, I pour. It seemed fair." She grinned small at him, the corners of her eyes wrinkling. "But I get the first dumpling." So saying, she snatched the largest one from the bamboo steamer and popped it in her mouth.

Yamcha yelped. "Little thief!"

"Former bandits have no right to complain," Marron told him after swallowing. She picked up the glass teapot and made to pour her own chrysanthemum tea, but he reached across the table and wrapped his hand around hers so that they wound up tilting the pot together.

"Fulfilling my obligations," he explained.

_He _so_ did that on purpose_, thought Marron, and her cheeks blazed once more. But the resentment washed away when Yamcha raised his porcelain teacup. She mimicked him. "What are we toasting?" she asked as they clinked their vessels together.

He shrugged and sipped his tea. "Oh, the usual. Future health. Happiness. Your impending flying lessons."

Marron nearly spat out her drink. "My w-what?" she coughed, hand over her mouth.

Yamcha smiled wickedly then, and she regretted asking.


	4. Raise it Up

**Author's Note:** The song Yamcha sings in this chapter is an original piece of mine; the proverb he quotes, however, is an old Japanese saying that I claim no credit for. While I'm here, I'd like to thank the individuals who have been so kind as to review this story. I appreciate your taking the time to do so more than I can say.

* * *

><p>Marron could no longer see the city on the horizon, and the road had long since morphed from a smooth ribbon of asphalt into an irregularly-tilled dirt path wide enough for only a single car to travel down at a time. They left it and Yamcha's vehicle behind them, walking perhaps an eighth of a mile before stopping near the edge of a great craggy rock face which dropped mercilessly down to a thin strip of beach. Beyond it and around it flowed the ocean, black as flint beneath the milky white sky.<p>

"Your parents asked me to teach you about a week ago," Yamcha explained to Marron, glancing up and shielding his eyes from the bright winter sun. "They really think you need to learn, and they said you'd probably be more receptive to it if I taught you."

The thirteen-year-old was too distracted by the rocks and waves over a hundred feet below them to wonder how her parents had figured that out. "We're doing this here?" she stammered, pulling Yamcha's jacket tighter around her torso. "Now?" The chill wind snatched her words and flung them away the second they left her mouth, but Yamcha heard them anyhow and explained,

"Nobody comes out here. There's a creepy forest that-a-way," he jerked his thumb at a smear of green not too far off on their left, "that everyone says is haunted. We'll be as hidden in this place as we would be at Kame House." He grinned. "And now's as good a time as any."

Marron knew something of the forest in question; her classmates often whispered about hunters who had gone missing in it and mutilated beast corpses that had apparently been found around its borders in the not-so-distant past. Jurai had expressed a desire to explore the place more than once, though Marron suspected she'd done so more for the sake of being contrary than anything else. For all the strange things she had seen and grown up around, Marron personally did not believe in the kind of malignant supernatural presences her peers were convinced lurked in the woods; she knew for a fact that while there existed in the universe more terrifying creatures than urban legends and folktales could suggest, even those things bled just like anything else if somebody hit them hard enough. Her opinion of the haunted forest was the least of her current concerns, however. She gulped, lightheadedness consuming her as she gazed down from the stony overhang. "But it's so high up…" she quavered.

"We won't be jumping off it or anything, don't worry. I'll carry you down to the beach and we'll practice there."

Marron's anxieties eased greatly at that. Perhaps, she reflected, flying might not be so frightening with Uncle Yamcha there to help her. Still, she feared disappointing him almost more than jumping off the precipice. And then there was another issue. "Um, but I…"

Yamcha put his hand on her shoulder briefly. "It'll be fine, I promise," he told her.

"But…!" Marron's face contorted in frustration and embarrassment as Yamcha stepped closer to the edge. She finally blurted, "But I'm wearing a skirt!"

Yamcha barely paid this fact any mind. He waved off her concern as he scrutinized the beach below them, leaning further over the lip of the bluff than Marron would have dared to go in a thousand years. "Oh, don't worry about that. Your parents passed off diaper-duty to me often enough in the old days; it's nothing I haven't seen before."

For a moment Marron only gaped at him. Then: "_They did what_?"

The pitch and intensity of her shriek made Yamcha pause. "Ah, hell," he muttered. "I shouldn't have said that." He faced his charge and found stark mortification branded across her features. He backpedaled. "Uh, what I meant was—"

Marron's voice climbed no less than three octaves. "You ch-changed my…?"

"It wasn't just me!" he reassured her hastily. "All of us got roped into it at one time or another: Gohan, Bulma, Chi-chi—I think your mother even made Piccolo do it once—"

A strangled half-squeak tore itself from the teen girl's throat. Too horrified to scream or cry, Marron fell into a crouch and buried her face in her knees with the speed and purpose of one determined to never move from the position ever again. She heard a dull slapping noise through her haze of embarrassment and realized Yamcha had probably struck himself on the forehead in retribution for his own carelessness. _Good_, she thought. _He saved me the trouble._ _Now all I have to do is fling myself off this cliff just as soon as my brain reboots._

"That sounded way more comforting in my head," Yamcha muttered in the meantime.

"_How_? How could you possibly think that knowing that every single one of my parents' friends has changed my diaper at some point would make me feel _better_?" demanded Marron, skirt smothering her hysteria only fractionally.

There was a long silence. "…Because you don't have to worry about me seeing your underwear now?" Yamcha hazarded.

The thirteen-year-old moaned despairingly. _The man I've had a crush on since age eight is talking to me about underwear and how he changed my diapers when I was a baby_. _I wish I'd stayed a bar of chocolate_.

"That was rhetorical? That was rhetorical," realized the warrior, passing a hand down his face. He tried again: "Would it help if I told you that it happened a really long time ago and that most likely nobody even remembers?"

"_You_ remember!"

"Oh. Right… Well, how about we just pretend that this conversation never happened and get back to-"

"Uncle Yamcha," interrupted Marron lowly.

"Yeah?"

"You're not helping."

He loosed a sigh. "Look. I'm really sorry, baby girl. I wasn't trying to embarrass you."

Marron didn't move.

"I'm just trying to help is all. Didn't you just say you wished you could get over your fear of flying?" he asked. She did not answer. "Look, you see the world from the earth and the water every day. Haven't you ever wanted to see how things look from the sky? Personally, without help from an air-car or anything else, just to say you did?"

Seconds passed. A gust of wind played with the hem of her skirt and a few loose strands of her hair. "I'll fall," Marron finally said, still not removing her face from her knees.

"Probably," Yamcha agreed. He walked over to her, and she jumped a little when, kneeling, he laid a hand on her back and continued, "Everyone falls when they first start out. It'll most likely happen to you. But you won't get hurt, because I'll catch you every time. I swear."

Swallowing, Marron reflected briefly on how unfair it was that she liked him so much. _I can't say no to anything with him_, she thought, _and he's so nice that I can't get mad at him for it_. After a brief moment's pause, she gave in: "…Okay," she whispered.

"Okay?" he asked her gently.

"Okay."

Yamcha kept his hand between her shoulderblades as they stood. She had not cried, but she rubbed her face with the sleeve of his jacket anyway, taking in its faint aroma of cloth and cedarwood and, unmistakably and indescribably, Yamcha himself. The coat didn't smell quite as good as the ocean after a storm, but she decided it was a close second. She looked up at Yamcha, who smiled encouragingly.

"You ready?" he asked.

She nodded. "L-Let's do it," she confirmed, trying to sound appropriately determined.

"That's my girl. Now." Yamcha walked with her to the edge of the precipice. "What I'm gonna do is carry you down to the beach like I said. I'm gonna raise my ki to do it, so you'll be able to feel how I manipulate it when I lift off and bring us down. It helps to have an idea of how to marshal the energy so you're not just taking stabs in the dark later."

"What if I can't sense your ki well enough to tell?"

"You will. We'll be pretty close, and even humans who aren't looking for it can feel ki when they get near enough somebody who's using it." So saying, Yamcha wrapped one arm around Marron's waist and the other around her shoulders. "Hold on."

Heart pounding, Marron obeyed, winding her arms about Yamcha's back and pressing her cheek against his chest.

"I'm gonna raise my aura now, alright?"

She nodded as best she could. A low rumble formed in his throat; the growl became a controlled exhalation that grew in intensity and volume until it morphed into a full-on kiai. Shivering slightly against him, Marron became aware of a prickling sensation comparable to a static charge enveloping Yamcha's body. She could feel the energy creeping out into the air around him, yet to say it behaved like heat from a fire would have been inaccurate; the ki did not escape him but circled back in on itself, focused and waiting for direction. Certainly it must take some effort to bring it out, Marron thought as Yamcha's cry faded into an echo off the rocky cliffside, but at this point it seemed more as though Yamcha was flexing a muscle rather than actively exerting force. No sooner had the idea crossed her mind than his energy shifted; Marron found that its movement was easier to detect in some ways than its simple presence. _Like air_, she reflected. _You don't really notice it until it becomes wind_.

She felt a light push-pull sensation, and as the energy lifted Yamcha, Marron's feet too rose from the ground. She clutched him tighter out of reflex, and he gave her upper torso a reassuring squeeze. They moved sideways out into the cold open air, propelled by the deliberate flow and focus of Yamcha's ki. _Even I can tell his control is excellent. Has he really not been doing martial arts since Cell?_ she wondered as they hovered momentarily, then descended.

Yamcha took them down at a leisurely rate, and while the whole experience wasn't half as frightening as Marron had anticipated, she still felt inordinate relief when they finally touched down on the tar-colored beach. After the good minute-and-a-half she'd spent balancing on faint energy that was not her own, Marron couldn't quite orient herself to solid ground at first; had Yamcha not kept his grip on her she might have stumbled. "Whoa, there. You okay?" he asked.

"I'm alright," she answered shakily over the crash of white-capped waves. To her surprise, she meant it. "It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be."

"Did you get any idea of how to manipulate it?" he asked, releasing her and stepping back once he was certain Marron had found her feet.

Marron hesitated. She brushed a piece of hair behind her ear and looked out to sea. "I think so. You reminded me of some stuff Dad said about it, like how you're supposed to push your ki out around you and have it pull you up. I just can't remember how to find it in the first place. My energy, I mean."

Yamcha nodded in the corner of her vision. "We'll work on that first then. I'm no sensei, but I might be able to give you a few tips at the very least." He sat on the dark, pebbly sand and gestured for Marron to join him. Lamenting the impending ruination of her skirt for only a moment, Marron took up a spot in front of him, keeping her gaze attentively trained on his.

"Now, the first thing you have to do," Yamcha said, holding up a finger with a small smile, "is make yourself completely calm…"

* * *

><p>The water soothed her, at the very least. The air beneath the cliff lacked the bitterness and frigidity of the higher winds, and its movement from the ocean to the beach was continuous and hypnotic where the gusts on the precipice had been intermittent and sharp. The gray sand beneath her knees hardly matched the warmth of Kame House's, but neither did it feel especially unpleasant. All in all, the cove was undeniably peaceful, she thought. Yet the longer she sat the more restless Marron grew; her brow creased and her mouth turned slightly downward as the minutes ticked blithely by. She narrowed her eyes at her hands, resisting the urge to shake them as if she could jimmy energy from the empty space between her two palms. "I think I'm doing it wrong," she finally said, voice frustrated and apologetic. Sprawled nearby on a flat boulder with his bare heels dangling off the edge into the surf, Yamcha cracked one eye open and glanced sidelong at his pupil.<p>

"You're getting impatient again," he told her. "Just relax. It's there, and you can get to it."

"But it's been an hour! I have to be messing up on something; shouldn't I have found it by now?"

Yamcha shut his eyes again, shifting his head on his pillowed arms. He seemed to be considering. The waves rolled and broke and receded, rolled and broke again. At length he asked, "Do you dance, baby girl?"

Marron thought of New Year's parties and moonlit rooms, of empty glasses and pealing laughter. "Do you mean, do I know how…?"

"No. I mean, when you hear a song that you really like, or one that's just really catchy and makes you want to move, do you get up and dance even though you might look silly doing it? Do you ever, you know, hop around and boogie like a moron just because you get the urge?"

Marron bit back a laugh at the word 'boogie.' "Um…" She tried to remember ever doing something like that in the past few years. "Not since I was little, I don't think." And she felt fairly certain that even such childhood incidents had been few and far between.

Yamcha _hmm_ed. "I figured. What about singing? Do you ever sing?"

"I'm tone-deaf."

"Not what I asked."

"I don't sing," elaborated Marron, "because I'm tone-deaf."

Sitting up slowly on his rock, Yamcha faced out to the ocean, one arm resting on his knee, his khakis rolled up just past his ankles. When at last he turned his gaze to her, he asked, "Do you know what the point of a battle-cry is?"

Marron struggled to remember what she had read on one of the rare days when had it rained over the island, leaving her to pass the time by perusing the lower shelves of her father's bookcases. One volume, its contents beautifully illustrated and surprisingly informative to Marron, who, despite having grown up surrounded by the martial arts, took little personal interest in their practice, had an entire page devoted to the kiai—the battle cry. "Isn't it for protection and stability? Contracting the abdominal muscles and giving air a way out in case a strike goes wrong?" Marron recalled now.

"That's true if you're just talking pure mechanics. I was mainly asking what the point of a battle-cry is to ki users. Most every fighter will tell you that you can only find your ki if you're calm and collected. So why does all that screaming bring it out so well?" Yamcha asked.

Marron blinked. When he put it like that, the two phenomena did seem contradictory. "I don't know. Why?"

The scar-faced man answered with another question: "What does_ ki_ mean?"

"Um… Energy, right?" she guessed.

"Energy and spirit; in other words, the very basics of life, the stuff that separates us humans from bugs and worms."

"But Dad says all living things have energy."

Yamcha shook his head. "I'm not talking about the kind of energy that only helps you move or eat or whatever. I'm talking about the spirit, the essence of life." When Marron looked confused, he elaborated, "You know that feeling you get when you're standing on top of a mountain, or looking up at the night sky, or doing something thrilling and amazing—that rush that fills you up and makes you think, 'Damn; I'm alive!'? It's lonely and terrifying because you know it won't last forever, but that just makes everything feel more important, you know? That's what the essence of life is. But it's not so much a feeling as a condition, a way of…being…" Faltering, Yamcha ran a hand through his hair. "How do I explain this…? I'm no good with words. Your dad could tell you," he said.

Marron hesitated. "Sometimes when I'm swimming, especially in the ocean, I get all giddy because everything's so pretty and I enjoy doing it so much. Is that what you mean? Is it like happiness?" she asked.

"Well, yeah, but it's more complicated than that, too. I'm trying to remember how my old master described it to me. Ah!" Yamcha snapped his fingers as a thought struck him. "There's this saying back in my home village: _You're a fool if you dance; you're a fool if you watch; so you might as well dance_. It more or less means that since everybody ends up dead in the end, it's best to live your life full-force, so you don't die feeling like you missed out on anything. Any bug or worm can crawl around and eat and have babies and die. Dancing, singing—doing stuff just because it's fun even though it's ultimately pointless—that's the essence of human life, and ki responds better to people who do that sort of thing."

Marron struggled to grasp his ultimate meaning. "So, people who live fun, rich lives…their ki is more active?"

"That's a good word for it. Now, granted, it's different for everybody. Some people are just naturally inclined to using ki; they manage it without ever worrying about all the psychological stuff. And it's not like ki is purely spiritual, either-it is partially connected to that life-energy that bugs and worms and everything else has, so someone who's in touch with that can often make do without thinking about it, either. Still, I guess what I'm trying to say is that the vast majority of humans who use ki well can't afford to be overly self-conscious. Too much caution and dignity and negative emotion can keep you from both living a spiritually fulfilling life and concentrating on ki use. And that's where the screaming comes in. The point of a kiai is to release your inhibitions, to center your existence, and to forget about all the complicated stuff-to just let the world know, 'hey, I'm alive and I'm gonna keep on living as well as I can, and if you have a problem with that, fuck you.' Of course you can't properly control your energy if you can't calm yourself and quiet your mind. But if you don't get out of your head and let yourself just relax and experience things, you'll never find the ki in the first place." Standing, Yamcha stepped down from the flat-faced boulder. He stood with his toes curled in the sand and with his head cocked at Marron. "I'm not saying I think you've never enjoyed life, baby girl, but the fact is that 99% of the time, you're pretty damn inhibited. It's no surprise you're having trouble," he concluded.

The girl raised her hands from her lap and considered them for a long moment. Her heart sank. He was right. She was inhibited, and she did not lead, by Yamcha's definition, a very spiritually fulfilling life. Did that mean that unless she drastically changed who she was, she would never find her ki? "Should we stop now, then?" she asked in a small voice, bringing her nervous eyes up to his once more.

"Do you want to stop?" asked Yamcha, tone neutral.

"No!" she replied quickly. "I don't, but…what you said…"

A smile curled onto his face, and he winked reassuringly. "Don't worry, baby girl. I think I have an idea for some training that'll help get you in a better mindset for accessing your energy."

"R-Really?" Marron scrambled to her feet, alternately relieved, apprehensive, and curious. Despite her currently dubious physical prowess, she had some training experience: back around the same time her father had tried to teach her to fly, when she'd been about seven or so, he had also taken it upon himself to show her some basic katas in hopes that the lessons might inspire her to further pursue the martial arts. Far more interested in swimming and playing with dolls, however, Marron had shown no particular inclination towards the practice, and wanting his daughter to follow her own path, Kuririn had allowed his lessons to fall between the cracks. Marron wasn't sure what sort of land-based exercise she could manage in her most comfortable workout clothes, let alone dressed as she was, but she'd committed to learning to fly, and the novelty of special training intrigued her. "What do I need to do?" she asked.

"Easy." Yamcha's smile stretched his scars. "You sing."

Marron shook her head a little, unsure if she'd heard him correctly. "Come again?"

"Sing something. Belt it out right here, right now."

_He's serious_, she realized with creeping dread. "B-But I told you I'm terrible…!"

"And I told you it didn't matter. Singing _well_ isn't the point, baby girl; _singing_ is. I promise I won't laugh."

Desperation began to creep into Marron's eyes. "Can't I do something else to un-inhibit myself?" she asked him.

Yamcha just grinned that faintly amused smile she was beginning to recognize as his _you've already lost this verbal duel; you just don't realize it yet_ look. He settled back down on the rock, bracing his hands behind him and looking at her expectantly. Backed into a corner, Marron blurted,

"But I don't know any songs!"

That earned her the Eyebrow. "Really? Not a single song? No lullabies, no campfire ditties, no ad jingles…?"

"Now you're just teasing me," she mumbled, feeling stupid and staring at her feet. She heard Yamcha let out a small breath that was surprisingly devoid of exasperation.

"Well," he said philosophically, "it does kind of defeat the purpose if it causes you more anxiety than it's meant to cure. Tell you what: how about I go first? Since you can't remember a song, I'll teach you one. It's from my home village. I'll sing it for you."

_His home village_? Marron wondered at that. Not too long ago she'd asked her father whether he knew anything of Yamcha's childhood prior to his meeting Goku and Bulma; her father had answered, "I don't think even Bulma knows about that, angelfish. Yamcha's never talked about it. To tell you the truth, I don't remember that I've ever actually asked him for details." Kuririn had crossed his arms then, looking troubled; Marron knew her father prided himself on being considerate of his friends, and she'd sensed his guilt at having never inquired on the matter. "I guess I always just assumed that he didn't want anyone to know. Do you want me to ask him, or…?"

"No, I was just curious. Thanks, Dad," she'd answered hastily.

Now, the thought of being privy to a facet of Yamcha's history that even his girlfriend of over a decade presumably was not made Marron's heart leap and flutter like an eager bird in her chest. She nodded. "I'd like that," she told her tutor shyly, no longer heeding the way the pebbly sand ground against her legs or how her lower back ached from her having sat in the same position for so long. Unhurried, Yamcha stretched, arched his back, and rolled his neck slowly to the side; it came to rest with his face angled toward the white sky.

"I hope I can remember the words," he murmured distantly. "It's been so long…" He closed his eyes. The wind tousled his hair, and, somewhere high up, a gull gave a cry that cracked whip-like against Marron's senses and made her think of the opening notes of a dirge. Marron caught her breath. _He's going to fade away_, she thought suddenly, irrationally. _He's going to fade away and leave me_ _and I won't be able to follow…_ She reached out a hand toward him in an instinctive bid to prevent this. It trembled, and she had to force herself to lower it once more. Yamcha did not open his eyes, but to her relief he spoke again:

"It's called 'The Lament of the Dream-Rider.' It's a sad song."

"Can you still sing it?" Marron asked, hoarse with half-concealed fear. "Please, Uncle Yamcha? I'll sing it with you, once you teach me how, so…please?"

The muscles of his neck bunched and loosened as he swallowed. "Of course, baby girl," he said, tone almost usual. "I said that I would."

He breathed in once, deeply. Then he sang:

"_I have in sleep seen things abroad  
>the midnight sky so black and deep.<br>The starlight cold against my skin,  
>the moon soft-breathing in her sleep,<br>I rode a dream up past the clouds  
>and traveled till I saw the white<br>of meteors, their bright expanse  
>stretching on through the dark of night.<br>They moved together through the void.  
>They sang of life and dreams and death.<br>I listened, rapt, till I recalled  
>that I'd soon need to draw a breath<em>…"

His voice, thought Marron, eyes disbelieving and wide. It wasn't what she'd call pretty or even well-trained, but there was something about the timbre and pitch of it that pierced her, a blade through her breastbone, a hook in her heart. It had a raw, fierce quality to it that put her in mind of windswept canyons and barren coves. Marron half-lifted her hands to her ears, not because his song was offensive, but because she found that like everything else about Yamcha, she loved his voice so much she could barely stand it. Shaking, she closed her hands and made herself listen as something she could not identify stirred inside her, awakening.

"…_A comet fell in love with me  
>though I told it I could not remain.<br>It followed me back to the earth  
>and shattered on the ground like rain.<br>__In that next moment I awoke  
>with star-song ringing in my ears.<br>The remnants of the comet's light  
>fell slowly from my eyes in tears.<br>Now though I try I can't recall  
>that song I heard once high above<br>the earth: it's overshadowed by  
>the star that broke its light for love.<em>"

A long moment passed as Yamcha's song faded from the air to be replaced once more with oceanic hissing. The man let out a slow breath. When his eyes opened, he was himself again.

"So, yeah," he said. "That's the…" His gaze fell on Marron. "Baby girl," he breathed.

Sweat had beaded on Marron's forehead; her pale cheeks were blotted with pink; he blond hair stirred against the wind and her skirt rippled in an updraft that was not there. Her arms locked tight by her sides, her fingers curled in on themselves, her legs straight and her ankles pressed together, she hovered about a foot above the sand. Occasionally her skirt would lift in such a way that Yamcha could see the dusky grit still clinging to the bare skin of her knees and legs.

"Uncle Yamcha," said Marron faintly, "I…I think I figured it out."

Yamcha stared at her open-mouthed. The utter shock and confusion on his face was so comical that Marron laughed in spite of herself. Then, her joy peaking, she half-flew, half-jumped into his arms with such force that he nearly fell and cracked his head open on the rock behind them. As it was, they spun in circles, Marron squealing in delight.

"I figured it out! Uncle Yamcha, I figured it out!" she cried, glomming onto him as though she were eight years old again and they were back in the dark living room at Capsule Corp, dancing with reckless euphoria to the static-laden strains of distant music. "I found it! I did it! Thank you!"

"Baby girl," he said again. They came to a stop, but Marron continued to hug him.

"Thank you, Uncle Yamcha." She closed her eyes. "Thanks so much."


	5. Interlude: Shake it Out

**Author's Note:** I originally uploaded the wrong version of the previous chapter on 9/13/11; it has since been replaced with the correct ending. This particular chapter is dedicated to my reviewer snoro, who I wish a speedy recovery from her injury. The suggested soundtrack for this chapter is Florence + the Machine's "Shake it Out".

* * *

><p>He has never been an easy sleeper, and while the rest of him has mellowed with the comings and the goings of the years, his tendency toward nightmares and restless slumber remained as strong as it has been in his younger days. Having jarred himself from some such troubled dreams two hours prior, he lies amidst the tangled sheets of his bed and listens to the drone of the timepiece on his wall as it tries to summon enough energy from its dying batteries to chime, but in the end only manages to croak and slur like a drunk so that by the time it finishes announcing the hour, it is already a minute past. His apartment melts into shades of gray and blue and black around him— indistinct as a fever-dream, listless as a sigh. Shutting his eyelids provides no relief from its oppressive emptiness. It is too hot, and yet he cannot summon the will to rise and turn down the thermostat. Insomnia has dug its claws firmly into him by now. He feels trapped within his own body and tortured by his own thoughts; the world is dark, but the snakes and static in his head make it seem all the darker.<p>

He wishes, not for the first time, that Puar still lived with him. The little shape-shifter forever made his life a brighter place, though he didn't realized how much so until Puar departed about a year ago to return to his homeland and visit his relatives. "I'll come back," the little blue cat promised him, tears shining in his beady black eyes. Yamcha, laughing, told him to take his time: "It's been years since you've seen them. You'll probably have a lot to catch up on."

_It's been years since you've seen them._

Yamcha lays his hands over his eyes, filling his bare chest with the too-warm air and holding it for a long moment before releasing it back into the night like a lungful of rancid cigarette smoke. As usual the scar on his stomach pulls and whines when he inhales; as usual, he ignores it. As usual the meditative breath does not calm him as it should.

_It's been years_.

I am old, he thinks then. I am old and I am tired and I am restless and I am irrelevant. He almost enjoysthe answering twinge of despair that ripples through him like the pain of a bone healed wrong, as familiar as the tug of the scar on his belly and back. At least it provides some variety to the flat apathy that so often gripps him this time of night.

"_Come home with me,_"_ he told the girl, drunk and horny and giddy beneath the full moon. She giggled and simpered and tilted her hip just so, and he could almost ignore the gaping emptiness that yawned within him as he pulled her away from the bar and down the dark road toward his apartment, a road that he would take again and again and again until his feet bled from walking down it so often…_

"_Yamcha, I'm pregnant." Bulma, regarding him with eyes far too familiar for him to pretend he saw affection in them anymore. Looking up at him through cerulean bangs and lowered brows with an unconsciously defiant tilt of her chin: "It's Vegeta's…"_

"_Stay out of this, dog, and leave the fighting to the true warriors." And the Saiyan prince looked so threatening as he snarled this into Yamcha's ear that the wolf-part of him that would normally have raised its hackles and bared its teeth at these words instead put its ears back and padded into the darkest corner of Yamcha's heart, never to truly return, not in a way that ever mattered (But has it ever mattered to begin with…?)._

_Kuririn rushing forward, eyes blazing, Android #18's cry tearing through the air behind him, chasing him as he ran towards his death despite having every reason to live and Yamcha could only stand there until #18 screamed at him to _move_ and even then he could only run like a coward and catch desperate glimpses over his shoulder as what has once been Kuririn was crushed between the teeth of a monster and when he finally looked forward it was into the terrified eyes of his daughter and his last thought before everything went to hell was _It should have been me…

Always those memories; always those four, interlaced with random flashes of Goku and Bulma and the Androids and Majin Buu but never truly varying themselves; always those four, ghosting through his mind like old unwanted friends; always those four, painful in one way or another, reminding him of what he has lost and what he has never possessed to begin with. Yamcha's hands tighten over his face. The dark of the room presses down on him like the air of a gravity chamber set too high. He wants to run then: he wants to run and he wants to never move again; he wants to fight and he wants to curl up and sleep until his mind finally falls silent; he wants to scream and he wants to immerse himself in such desolate quiet that words lose all meaning and fall from his recollection entirely. He wants to live and he wants to…

He wants to…

_Blue eyes, blue not-Bulma eyes holding within them all of Kuririn's determination and #18's ferocity, yet lit with an emotion he has never seen in either the human or the android, their corners red with unshed tears, their depths wavering and uncertain. Too hesitant, too nervous and obsessive, and yet for all this, their owner smacking and scolding him for stating what he'd known to be a fact about himself for over a decade, her voice high and cracking and defiant: "Shut up! You shouldn't talk that way!"_

_Gripping his wrist as if her life depended on it, desperate eyes telling him _stay, stay, stay_ as she shook her head and asserted, "You may not be as strong as a Saiyan, but you can still fly faster than any bird and use your own energy to level mountains!_ _And I know that if a bad guy somehow managed to defeat all the other fighters, you'd protect everybody who couldn't defend themselves even if you knew you couldn't win!_ _And you may have cheated on Bulma and your other girlfriends, but I know that in the end you were the one who got the most hurt, and that if you could do it all over again, you'd make things right! I know you aren't a bad person, Uncle Yamcha! I think you're one of the best!"_

_Smiling up at him through gapped teeth in the moonlight, frilly red party dress reduced to snatches of shadow as she chirped encouragingly, "I'll dance with you, Uncle Yamcha! But I don't know how, so…can you teach me, please?"_

_Holding him so tight he thought he might break under the weight of her adoration, looking at him as though he'd given her the key to the universe, pure unmitigated joy writ large over her countenance: "Uncle Yamcha, I figured it out! I found it! I did it! Thank you, Uncle Yamcha!" _

_Eyes lighting up just to see him standing there, delighted and shy and worshipful even as she shivered in the cold: "Uncle Yamcha!"_

"_Uncle Yamcha!"_

"I'm here," the fifty-one-year old whispers, and his words send the darkness hissing back like a clutch of mean, hoary, startled reptiles. "I'm here, baby girl."

So saying, he rises from his bed and walks into the hall. The eerie verdant light of the thermostat's digital display screen blinks on when he prodds its buttons. Glancing into a mirror directly adjacent to it, he finds its alien glow illuminates a small smile perched comfortably on his mouth. He shakes his head at himself. But his expression does not change even after he returns to bed. The smile and the inner calm that accompanies it remains with him as he falls back asleep, and they guard his rest as he slumbers, undisturbed, for the first time in years.


	6. Ghost

The gymnasium smelled of rubber and sweat. The heavy industrial lamps hanging from its ceiling coated the lacquered wood floor in a candy-bright sheen not unlike the reflection of sunlight upon water, its shine interrupted only by the arcs and straights of the basketball court's carefully painted delineations. Shouts and activity raged around her, yet Marron stood calmly amidst the chaos, a small smile playing vacantly at her lips as she recalled for what must have been the hundredth time that afternoon the words Yamcha had spoken to her following her successful discovery and utilization of her ki the previous day: "I'm so proud of you, Marron."

_He was proud of me. He said it. He was! _

To cover up the sheer joy that had coursed through her at that, Marron had replied quickly, "It's thanks to you, Uncle Yamcha. I was so busy listening to your song that I forgot to be nervous, and then it just clicked, and I could do it! Thank you so much." And had he actually _blushed_ a teeny tiny bit at that? Marron was fairly certain he had. Her smile grew with the memory. Who would have thought Uncle Yamcha could be bashful, of all things? _So cute!_

He'd scratched his cheek sheepishly. "Well, I, uh, I'm glad I could help. It's what I'm here for. So you think you could do it again if you tried?" he had asked, granting her a small smile.

"I think so…" And to prove it, she'd closed her eyes and, after a moment of intense concentration that had made her lips purse and her muscles twitch, she had managed to lift herself a few inches off the ground. "I'm not so sure about the flying part, though," she'd confessed as she had dropped a bit unsteadily back to the earth, breathing harder than before with the exertion of summoning her energy. But Yamcha had reassured her:

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. Flying's the easy part after you get the ki thing down." He'd brightened as an idea struck then: "Hey, tell you what: I don't have anything planned, so why don't we practice after you get out of school tomorrow, too?"

With a leaping heart, she'd stuttered: "Y-You don't mind? I don't want to be a bother…"

He'd waved away her concerns, the sea breeze stirring his hair. "No sweat. I wouldn't offer if I had something better to do." His eyes had crinkled. "And I still expect you to sing something, you know."

She'd winced a little at that. "Oh, man…"

"Hey, it's only fair!"

"I know that. I won't be able to sing half as well as you, though, Uncle Yamcha. You've got a wonderful voice. It made me cry," she'd admitted timidly, brushing the drying tear trails from her cheeks with the sleeve of his jacket. And, _eee_, had he blushed when she'd said that, too…?

"_Marron_!"

Snapping out of her reverie, Marron looked toward the source of the cry just in time to get beaned unceremoniously in the face with a volleyball. Its velocity sent her sprawling, and a whistle blared sharply through the gym as she tumbled to the floor. Jurai was at her side in a flash and a jingle of bracelets.

"You damn morons! What the hell's your problem, huh?" she demanded of the class at large as Marron attempted to re-orient her vision. _Oh, Jurai_, y_ou don't need to yell. I'm okay. I think_, she wanted to say, but her mouth had trouble forming the words.

"Watch your language, Miss Jurai," barked their teacher Ms. Agasuto. "I'm sure Marron is perfectly fine. We aren't children here."

Struggling to sit up, Marron put a hand to her cheek. Jurai retorted,

"Oh, yeah, she only got knocked upside the head! I'm taking her to the locker room to make sure she isn't concussed or something."

Marron could hear the annoyance in the coach's voice. "Alright, fine. But come straight back here afterwards; I don't want you using this as an excuse to skip my class."

Jurai hauled Marron to her feet. "Old bat," she groused under her breath as the woman awarded a penalty point to Marron's team. Her huge hoop earrings nudged her clavicle as she shouldered the majority of her friend's weight. "You conscious, Mar?"

"I'm fine," said Marron, dazed but emotionally unruffled. The two girls made their way to the back of the gym. Pushing open the door to the locker room with her free arm, Jurai waited until they were safely inside the musty room before swearing,

"That fucking Setenba! I know that little bitch aimed for you on purpose. Seriously, just say the word and I'll put itching powder in her bra." Jurai deposited Marron onto the nearest wooden bench and crossed her arms angrily. "I'd put it in her underwear, but she probably wouldn't even notice that. Are you really okay?"

"I'm alright, Jurai. It didn't even hurt that much. And it was my own fault for not paying attention." The response was typical for Marron, but the blithe tone and wide grin that accompanied it caused Jurai to peer closer at her in perplexed suspicion. The bells tied to the end of her dark braid jingled as it fell over her shoulder.

"The hell's with you?" she asked, not unkindly. "I mostly got you outta there 'cause I thought you'd be embarrassed, but you aren't getting all blushy or anything. How hard did that ball hit you?"

Marron tried to restrain her features, but only wound up smiling harder. "I guess I'm just really happy today for some reason," she demurred.

"Come to think, you've been grinning like an idiot all d—oh my god!" Shock and delight lit Jurai's gaze, and she leaned toward Marron. Her smile grew until it took up almost half her face. "Marron, you dog! Did you _get some_?"

Blue eyes blinking in confusion, Marron leaned back on the bench a little; Jurai's Cheshire-cat grins were kind of scary up close. "Get some what?" she asked.

"You know! Wink-wink, nudge-nudge, _bow chikka-wow-wow_?" Jurai sing-songed the last few words with a suggestive eyebrow waggle. At her friend's continued incomprehension, Jurai huffed and hung her head, glee dissolving into profound exasperation. "Ugh, never mind. I swear it's like you live on an island or something. So, you _didn't_ get down and dirty with your father's buddy yesterday, I'm guessing?"

"No, he—Jurai!" Marron's cheeks flamed as the implication hit her. "That's…that's…"

Jurai pulled back and put her hands on her hips. "A fact of life, my little ingénue. Remind me to give you the Talk sometime, since your parents obviously haven't yet."

"They have," said Marron defensively. "It was just…the short version."

Jurai's brow lifted. "The 'short version'?" she echoed.

Marron remembered:

* * *

><p>It was a warm summer day; she was twelve and, sitting on the beach blowing bubbles with Umigame while Oolong napped in a lounge chair nearby, she heard the front door of Kame House open and slam. Turning, she made to greet her mother as the slim blonde android walked briskly over to her, but before she could open her mouth, #18 lifted her by the back of her shirt and carried her bodily around the side of the blush-colored house. She was gentle as set Marron down on her feet, but in her flustered state the girl tripped herself anyhow, squawking as she fell into a heap of gangly limbs. When she'd recovered enough to look back up at her mother, the android had her arms crossed and was regarding her impassively, ice-blue eyes revealing nothing.<p>

"Your father is a sorry excuse for a man," she told her.

Marron had heard this more than once on the rare occasions when her mother and father fought. She'd long since learned that it was easier to simply agree with #18 in these instances. "Um. Okay, Mom."

"He's too much of a wimp to ask you," #18 clarified, "so I will: Do you know how sex works?"

Having grown up with not one, but two perverts under the same roof as her, Marron would have had to have been blind and stupid not to have gleaned some idea of the process by then. "M-Mostly," she replied, blushing more on principle than actual embarrassment; she was still too confused for the latter.

#18's gaze narrowed. "Do it before you're eighteen years old and I'll beat your rear," she said. "Do it without protection and I'll beat your head. And if some guy makes you do it after you say no, you come and tell me so I can ki-fry his balls and mount his head on a stick. Do you understand me?" she asked, the cadence of her words flat and unvarying.

"Y…Y-Yes, Mom."

"Good." With that, her mother turned and went back into the house, leaving Marron sitting on a patch of island grass wondering what the heck had just happened.

* * *

><p>Jurai stared at her following Marron's edited summation of the incident. "Your mom sounds awesome," she said, brown eyes wide and impressed. "My dad just gave me books after I got my first period. Not that I would have wanted him to talk to me about that sort of thing; my older sister did most of that."<p>

"She's the most amazing person I know," Marron agreed.

Apparently satisfied that someone had seen to Marron's carnal education in a satisfactory capacity, Jurai braced her foot on the bench and went into a deep forward stretch. "Ugh. Speaking of periods, I'm on mine and it sucks. At least I don't have to go to gymnastics today, but man, I hate this shit. It's such a pain," she complained.

"Uh, yeah," echoed Marron. "A big pain…" Her eyes slid downwards, and she bit her lip.

Thankfully, her friend did not linger on the subject. "So are you ever gonna show me what this hunky friend of your dad's looks like? 'Cause now I'm genuinely curious," she said.

Marron struggled past a reflexive inclination to keep Yamcha all to herself. Jurai was her friend—her only friend—and, though she had a strange way of showing it, Marron could tell she was concerned for her; Marron was, after all, associating with an older man who Jurai did not know. She owed the other girl information at the very least, she decided, mentally scolding herself for her selfishness. "He's actually coming to pick me up from school this afternoon. If you don't have to go home right away, I could introduce you two," offered the blonde.

"Whoa, awesome! I'd like that." Jurai nodded. Noting her open, toothy grin, Marron felt a wave of satisfaction; she had made the right choice, she was certain now. "Until then, what do you say we hide from Agasuto in the library? There's no way in hell I'm going back out there." Jurai jabbed a thumb in the direction of the gym proper.

"Sounds good to me," Marron agreed, and began gathering her things.

* * *

><p>When Marron and Jurai met Yamcha outside the school's iron gate, Yamcha's first question was not "Who's your friend?" as she had thought it would be, but rather, "Why is there an imprint of a volleyball on your cheek?" Embarrassed, the blonde girl opened her mouth to explain, but Jurai loosed a shriek behind her then that made Marron spin round and Yamcha all but tense into a defensive fighting form.<p>

"Y-You're-!" Jurai's shaking finger pointed at Yamcha like a nocked arrow. "You're from the Taitans!" she cried. Before Marron fully comprehended what she'd said, Jurai continued, screeching, "_Oh my God_! Marron! Why didn't you tell me your dad's friend was _fucking Yamcha_? He was only the best goddamn batter the Taitans _ever had_! Only the best _pitcher_ they'd seen in _forty_ freaking years! Only a _legend_ of _modern baseball_!" Jurai punctuated each of these points with an emphatic flail of her hands.

Marron glanced back at Yamcha to find such a degree of bafflement written on his scarred features that she almost collapsed into hysterics right then and there. "That was over twenty years ago," he said weakly. "How on Earth do you…?"

"My dad! He played in the minor leagues with the Centurions when he was in his twenties, but he's been a fan of the Taitans since he was a little kid! He was at the game where you kicked Rocky Rivers's ass! He and I watch recordings of the team's old matches every Sunday!" cried Jurai in worshipful ecstasy. She bounced up and down on the pavement, jewelry ringing. "_Ohmigod_, I can't believe it's_ you_!"

They were beginning to draw stares from students departing through the gates and pedestrians milling down the sidewalk, noticed Marron, but seeing the fangirlish glee shining on Jurai's face and the stunned disbelief on Yamcha's cancelled out any shyness she might have normally felt in reaction to their scrutiny. The blonde girl bit her lip to keep from giggling at both of them. Then, beginning to close the distance between her and Yamcha without removing her transfixed gaze from the older man, Jurai grasped the hem of her workout tee, crying, "Sign my bra!"

"NO!" Marron and Yamcha both made to grab Jurai's arms with identical looks of horror in their eyes. Somehow managing to evade both of them, Jurai laughed and held up her hands.

"I kid, I kid!" She grinned and, seeming to settle down, said, "Seriously, though, it would make my goddamn life if I could get an autograph. I wish I had my dad's tickets from that game with me! I wish I had my dad with me, come to that! He'd totally flip his shit. He loves the Taitans even more than I do!"

_I'm beginning to think that's not possible_, reflected Marron. Yamcha had by now more or less recovered his composure, and a slow smile was beginning to make an appearance on his lips and in his eyes. "Well," he said cheerfully, years of experience dealing with rabid fans allowing him to slip into easy professionalism quick as a flash, "I'm more than happy to sign whatever you've got. And if you like you and your dad can come out to lunch with me and Marron sometime. He can bring the tickets then." A warm hand found Marron's shoulder. The blonde looked up at Yamcha, cheeks pinking. "You're Jurai, right? She says you've been a great friend to her."

Joy bloomed on the dark-haired girl's face. "No shit? You'd seriously do that?"

"Absolutely," replied Yamcha with a wink. " I'd love to shoot the breeze with a fellow ballplayer. It's been a while."

Giving a happy squeal, Jurai ran and swept Marron up in a hug. "Ohmigod! This is awesome! You're the most amazing friend _ever_, Mar! Thank you, Mr. Yamcha!"

The former bandit laughed. "No sweat."

Setting Marron down, Jurai dug in her pack for a sheet of paper. "Can you make it out to my dad? His name's Jun," she said.

"It's nice of you to think of your parent first. How about I do one for each of you?"

"Jeez, you don't mind?"

"Not a bit. So, just tell Marron when you and your dad are free, okay? She has my number, so she can let me know…"

As Marron watched Yamcha sign the pages from Jurai's notebook, observing Yamcha's friendly generosity and her friend's giddy appreciation, an all-consuming rush of tenderness gripped her so that even in the cold winter air she felt warmer than she had in years. The feeling was as delicate as a soap bubble and as absolute as the ocean. _Love_, she named it. _I love both of them so much_. A gentle smile worked its way onto her mouth, and she decided that the emotion currently flowing through her was superior to even the triumph of having discovered her ki. _Let me remember this moment for the rest of my life. Even if Jurai and I fall out of touch, even if Uncle Yamcha never loves me the way I love him, let me remember how this feels until the day I die_, she prayed to whichever god would hear her as her friend and her crush concluded their business.

Jurai bid her and Yamcha goodbye shortly after carefully tucking her newly-acquired autographs into a folder. As she disappeared down the sidewalk, all but skipping in her glee, Yamcha turned his dark gaze to Marron and remarked teasingly,

"Of all the seventh-graders in West City, you manage to make friends with a baseball groupie. You love to make my life interesting, don't you, baby girl?"

Marron felt too content to even worry about whether or not she had inconvenienced Yamcha. Instead she simply grinned and, when Yamcha offered her his elbow, she wound her arm through it and allowed herself to be led to his car.

* * *

><p>The winds around the cliff and the beach blew less fiercely than they had the previous day, which, Yamcha told Marron, was ideal: "Until you can generate enough ki to put an aura shield around you, you'll want to avoid flying on days when the wind could throw off your balance. It's a hazard."<p>

Marron nodded. Despite the happiness that discovering her energy had given her the day before, the prospect of actual flight was currently causing her heart to throb with anxiety; instructions to be cautious, at least, she could follow. She and Yamcha stood facing each other on the beach. Marron still wore her gym uniform, which consisted of a white T-shirt and a navy tracksuit, but following Yamcha's example, she had peeled off and laid her sneakers on a boulder further up the beach. Her toes wiggled apprehensively against the sand. Had anyone but Yamcha been encouraging her to go airborne, she might have walked away, refused, or become overwhelmed by fear. When Yamcha indicated for her to begin, however, she straightened her back, closed her eyes and grasped for that elusive mental and spiritual thread which would lead her to her ki. Eventually she caught hold of it, and with a figurative tug the energy began to flow through her; it tingled down her nerves and swam through her veins, weak but undeniably present. Muscles twitching slightly, she marshaled the ki and began a slow rise about ten feet into the air—higher than she had ever gone. Yamcha kept pace with her. He was the first thing she saw when she opened her eyelids—a figure comprised of rich earthy hues contrasting against a slate-white sky, hovering as easily as she herself floated in the water. He looked warm, she thought, flushing at the memory of the weight of his jacket on her shoulders, and of the weight of his body on hers that day at the park.

"Alright!" he said. "You did it! That's great." Marron did her best to smile, though her face was tensed with the concentration needed to both maintain her ki and to fight down the redness invading her cheeks. "Now try to follow me."

"But how do I…?"

Yamcha shook his head. "Don't think about it too hard. Using ki is like using a muscle. You can think about manipulating it in certain ways all you want, but beyond that, you just have to do it." He moved a few feet away from her, holding out his arms like a parent might to a child. "Come on," he encouraged with a lopsided smile.

Marron hesitated, her pigtails shifting against her shoulders with the upward pull of her energy. _You can do this_, she thought. _How different from swimming can it be_? She steeled herself and pushed about a foot forward through the air. Her arms automatically flailed out as she was gripped by the sudden sensation of being off-balance; in her panic her attention to her ki waned, and she felt herself drop. Immediately Yamcha caught her, flying higher up as he did so in order to counteract the downward gravitational force. He brought her close to his chest.

"It's okay, it's okay, you're fine," he soothed as she clung to his shirtfront like a terrified cat. "Not a big deal. You're safe. I've got you." He slowed his ascent.

Marron babbled over the chill sea breeze, "I'm no good at this, I don't think I can do it, we should maybe probably definitely stop…"

"Hey. Don't give up on me now, baby girl. It was only your first try," Yamcha said, shaking her a little in his arms as if to bring her back from a trance. He tilted his head so he could better observe her and vice-versa. "You've got this."

His face, she realized absently, was nearer to hers than it had ever been. His scars looked different up close; rawer, pinker, fresher. Perhaps it was on account of the cold. She felt the familiar tickle of his energy around them, but it wasn't ki that made the goosebumps flare up on her arms. _Kiss me_, she thought at him then, an absurd non-sequitur amidst her fading panic. But Yamcha just closed one warm, dark eye and asked,

"Ready to keep going?"

Marron nodded. To simply give up now after Yamcha had invested so much time and effort in teaching her would be worse than dashing her skull open on the rocks, she reflected. She flared her ki as best she could; Yamcha released her after he made certain she could remain afloat under her own power.

"Okay," he said, "follow me." He began to drift slowly backwards, arms stretched out to her again, though she could tell that he intended the gesture more as a comfort than as an invitation to fly into his embrace. Obeying, she wobbled after him, trying not to think about it too much, trying not to get distracted, and, most importantly, trying not to look down.

"Hey, you're doing it!" cried Yamcha after a half minute or so of their clumsy game of chase.

"Barely," she ground out in reply, faltering and recovering with a squeak. "You make it…look…easy…"

"It will be for you too," he promised her. "All it takes is a little practice before it's second nature. Ready to try turning?"

Marron gave a curt nod. Yamcha rotated ninety degrees so they were moving perpendicular to the beach rather than parallel, and slowly the blonde girl followed him out to sea. The waves did not look half as restless as they had been the previous day, though they were just as dark and cold-looking. It made sense that Yamcha would want to practice above the ocean, she reflected, positioning herself so her body leaned more horizontal as she went; should she fall and he miss catching her, hitting the water would damage her far less than hitting solid ground—at least from this height, anyway. The thought of falling again made her slightly dizzy; she shook the memory away and returned her attention to corralling her energy.

"You're doing great!" Yamcha praised with a flash of white teeth. And indeed, though she had to fight to keep herself from clawing at the air before her in an instinctual dog-paddle, Marron was finding it gradually easier to maintain the push-pull required for her ki to keep her airborne. The air flowed around her, causing the slick fabric of her jacket and pants to ripple and snap in the breeze. She tried to move more smoothly through it lest her current start-stop-hover method make her feel ill, and to her surprise the ki responded to this desire almost the second she thought of it, pushing her forward more steadily than before. Flying_ was_ like using a muscle, she realized, a muscle that you never knew existed—it required a delicate balance of attention and reaction that had to be felt rather than explained, practiced rather than intellectualized. And she was getting the hang of it, gradually but steadily.

A gust of wind buffeted her face then, making her eyes water. She slowed slightly, rubbing at them with the back of her hand.

"You alright, baby girl?" called Yamcha, who was by now a fair distance away.

She smiled and nodded at him. "It's just the wind. I'm fi—"

Ki sputtering and vanishing, she dropped. For one stomach-churning instant she could only register fear, vertigo and, in the background, Yamcha's startled yelp; then she hit the water feet-first, burrowing below the surface of the ocean like a thrown spear. The low gurgle of displaced water sounded in her ears; bright, glassy bubbles and an endless expanse of water shot through with pale shafts of sunlight filled her vision. _Pretty_, she thought first, then, _cold_. She kicked instinctually, breaking the surface with a startled gasp.

"Marron!" Yamcha floated above the waves not too far from her. He flew over to where she bobbed bemusedly in the cold sea. "_Kami_, are you okay?"

His feet hovered before her face. Marron studied them for a moment with strange detachment before her gaze traveled up to meet his frantic eyes. "I'm fine," she told him honestly, though her lower jaw vibrated as she said it.

"Here, let me help you up. I'll take you to shore." He seemed genuinely panic-stricken as he see-sawed his legs up into the air and angled his head and torso down so he could more easily offer her his hand; had she ever seen him this distressed before? He looked…young, Marron realized. Fear made him appear almost as young as her. For some reason the sight made her stomach twist. She'd never considered Yamcha old prior to seeing him in this state, but now that she had, the contrast between his current countenance, laced as it was with frantic, revitalizing energy, and his typically easygoing, subdued one was undeniable.

Thirty-eight years. She had never properly considered how much time that really was before.

_We live in two different worlds_, she realized suddenly. _He may as well be a bird and I may as well be a fish for all the distance between us. Even _if_ he liked me… _The revelation, while not entirely without precedent, hit her hard, and tears pricked her eyes as the truth of it dawned on her. But she chased them away with a sudden, determined resolution:

_No, Uncle Yamcha. You can't carry me all the time, _she thought as she glanced at Yamcha's proffered hand._ I have to find my own way up. I have to become a flying fish. An angel-fish. _

_And if I can't manage even this by myself, I'll never be able to be with you._

This time, the ki answered her summons quicker than she could blink. Marron burst from the ocean in a shower of droplets, pigtails raining water down the front of her soaking windbreaker, clothes dripping and sopping. She brushed a few blonde strands of hair from her eyes and grinned, hovering triumphantly some feet above her tutor. Yamcha gaped at her for a moment. _Oh, for a camera_: He_ looks like a fish now_, she thought. But his shock didn't last long; it quickly morphed into a smile, and the genuine pride and admiration that lit his eyes then almost made her lose her concentration and fall again.

"It's fine, Uncle Yamcha! I'm okay," she assured him instead, shivering. "C-Can we keep going? I want to learn how to g-g-go f-faster."

Flying up so they hovered at eye-level with one another, Yamcha chuckled and quirked a relieved brow. "You scared me for a second there, baby girl. You really seem to be taking to this, though," he mused approvingly. "I knew you could do it."

"I'm sorry I w-worried you," panted Marron, though inwardly she glowed.

He waved off her apology before turning back to the shore. Over his shoulder he said:

"Let's get you dried off before we continue. Like I said, your mother will eviscerate me if I let you catch—"

That was when a blurred form barreled into him without warning, jamming an elbow into his ribs and uttering a single harsh cry, and Yamcha went down.

* * *

><p>Floating high above the cliffs and the ocean, the man observing the scene with knife-keen eyes raised a surprised brow. "Well, this just got interesting," he murmured to himself, crossing his legs mid-air without removing his gaze from the activity below. A violent zephyr stirred around him like an angry dragon and bore his low chuckles away on its back.<p>

* * *

><p>Marron's pupils dilated in shock; freezing as Yamcha careened downward with the force of the sudden blow, she forgot about maintaining her ki and fell back into the sea with a helpless shriek. This time she did not bother to note the cool serenity of her aquatic surroundings; she clawed her way back up to the surface and, spitting saltwater, looked desperately about for Yamcha and the stranger who had attacked him. She pushed out of the ocean with her ki and saw that Yamcha had barely avoided being knocked into the water; his aura flared as he ground to a stop just above the waves, then rocketed up to meet his attacker mid-air. They exchanged a volley of blows so rapid that Marron could barely track them before breaking away and charging their right palms with small ki spheres. In that moment they seemed almost like reflections of one another, but then Yamcha shouted, "<em>Sokidan!<em>" and hurled his energy orb at his assailant before the other fighter could release their attack. The stranger dodged the ki ball swiftly, but Yamcha made a motion with his hand and the glowing orb doubled back.

_He's got him!_ thought Marron. But the stranger turned and, forming a second ki ball in their left hand, threw their arms out on either side of their body. With a sharp yell, the attacker loosed both spheres of energy at the same time; one made to intercept Yamcha's ki ball while the other sped toward Yamcha himself. Forced onto the defensive, Yamcha crossed his wrists in front of his face. The stranger's attacks struck their targets simultaneously. A vast _boom_ shook loose rocks from the cliff face and blew Marron backwards through the air. By some miracle she did not wind up in the ocean again, but managed to right herself as the explosions' aftershocks began to fade.

"_Uncle Yamcha!_" she cried, flying toward where she had last seen him, though he had no idea what she could do even if she managed to locate the scarred man amidst the dying chaos. She glanced about frantically. As the smoke and debris from the explosion gradually thinned, muted sounds of combat drifted up to Marron. She jerked her head downward and found Yamcha and his attacker fighting on the beach below. _He's okay!_ she thought, relief flooding her, and flew down near where the two were engaged. Marron landed atop a tall boulder wedged against the cliff in order to get a better view of the proceedings. Trembling, she dropped to one knee for better balance. Her eyes turned to Yamcha's attacker. _It's a woman_, Marron realized. She sported gray gi pants and a long, dark green tunic with a blue sash tied around her middle. Her steel-hued hair fell to her shoulders in shaggy waves, and she wore a loose gray undershirt beneath her tunic. One side of her face had been burned to a point at which her left eye was sealed shut by scar tissue. She carried a scimitar at her hip and wore a style of boots Marron did not recognize. And she was driving Yamcha back.

Yamcha thrust out with a palm strike. The older woman turned it aside before loosing a volley of speed-blurred punches at Yamcha's face, all of which he blocked; sliding rapidly into a reverse roundhouse kick, the woman brought the back of her heel around in an arc aimed at Yamcha's knees. Yamcha leapt backward in order to avoid the attack, giving the older woman time to use the momentum from her kick to spin around and drive her right fist down into the earth with deadly speed and force.

"HAHHH!"

Yamcha ducked to the side; the force of the woman's blow sent sand geysering upward, rending a deep, narrow trench through the beach as it coursed beneath the ground. The earth trembled, and the energy from old woman's punch rolled ever-forward until it eventually struck an outcropping of boulders that exploded on contact. Marron almost fell off her perch as she cringed away from the golf-ball-sized shards of rock that spattered down on her, far away from the point of impact though she was. By the time she'd recovered herself, Yamcha and the old woman stood facing each other, the woman tall and proud, Yamcha defensive and gritting his teeth. A low, rasping chuckle filled the air, and it took Marron a moment to realize it had come from the strange woman with the earth-shattering punch.

"What's wrong, pup?" she asked, her voice deep and harsh like a dull knife scraping against the bottom of a dry well. "Forget how to attack during these long years? Or maybe you've just gotten soft. That seems more likely judging from how the last time I saw you, you were hawking goods on a television commercial twenty years ago." Off-key and charmless, the woman whistled a few bars of a catchy tune that Marron could only assume was the jingle of the advertisement in question. A muscle in Yamcha's cheek twitched.

"How did you find me?" he spat.

The woman's lips pulled back as best they could; contrasting with the stiff flesh of her burn scars, the half-grin resembled something from a nightmare. "Oh, word gets around, pup. I may live in the boonies, but I know how to sniff someone out if need be. Especially when their face is plastered all over limited-edition sports drinks."

"Cut the shit. _How_?"

"Your little shapeshifting fan-kitty told me. Of course, he had to be persuaded, but…"

Yamcha's fists clenched. "Wagashi, if you've hurt Puar...!" he growled.

The older woman snorted. "Oh, spare me the dramatics. I've got more honor than that. I just shook him up a little. And," Wagashi's eye flashed; baring her teeth in a sudden grimace that further distorted her features and made Marron suck in her breath, she snarled, "_it's 'sensei' to you, you insolent pup_!"

They charged each other then. Using his ki as a springboard, Yamcha leapt into the air; distantly, Marron heard a howl on the wind, and for the barest moment she could have sworn that the vaulting form was not Yamcha readying an attack, but a lean dark wolf with glowing eyes and slavering jaws springing for the kill. Yamcha's voice sounded from all directions as he yelled, "_Wolf_…"

Wagashi slid to a stop beneath him, the sudden halt of inertia whipping her hair forward over her shoulders. Her eye narrowed as she glared up at Yamcha, and adopting a wide stance, she raised her hands in claw-like fists; she seemed prepared to meet Yamcha head-on.

"_Fang_…"

Marron dug her numb fingers helplessly into the boulder. _I have a bad feeling…!_

"_Fist!_" Yamcha closed in on the woman, eyes fierce and triumphant, but before he'd so much as landed the first blow, Wagashi blurred out of sight. Yamcha turned in mid-air just in time for Wagashi to re-materialize beside him. With a counter-cry of "_Wolf Fang Fist_!" she rained blows down on her unprepared opponent; Marron could see blue-white sparks leaping between her fingers, and every time they came into contact with Yamcha's body, he jolted and convulsed as though electrically shocked. Finally the older woman pulled back, and, as a stunned Yamcha began to tumble the rest of the way to the ground, she landed a kick to his ribs that sent him hurtling backwards into the cliff wall. He remained there for the longest instant of Marron's life. Then, he peeled away from the rock face and crumpled onto the sand in a heap.

Marron screamed; Wagashi paid her no attention. Instead, chest heaving with over-exertion, she landed and regarded Yamcha with a gradually-cooling gaze. "You really are a moron," she told him, coughing slightly, "if you thought you could beat me with an amateurish version of my own technique." Wiping her mouth, she made her way up the beach, the waves chasing after her shoes as she stalked toward where Yamcha lay twitching on the ground. More clearly, she said, "I may be old, but I'm still your sensei, pup. And I've kept up my training, unlike you, apparently. You thought you could beat me, even as I am now? Idiot," she spat, hand going to her hip, seemingly reaching for the sword tethered there. Before she could take another step towards her former student, however, Marron dove down and lit on the ground between her and Yamcha. She turned to face Wagashi, threw her arms out to the sides in an effort to shield the older man, and, despite the fact that she was still shivering and dripping wet and freezing cold, she held the older woman's gaze with a glare that she hoped was as defiant as it was fearful.

"_I don't think I could take it knowing I left people I cared about behind. It would be worse than dying."_

For a long minute they simply stood staring at each other. Faint surprise mixed with laconic amusement in Wagashi's eyes. "…Well," she said at length, "looks like the pup has a little one of his own now. I suppose he had to get over his fear of girls eventually. At any rate, you must take after your mother. You don't look a thing like him."

Her assumption caught Marron off-guard, robbing her of her voice. With a slight shifting noise, Yamcha rose up on his hands and knees behind her and said lowly,

"She's not mine. A friend's."

Marron dropped her stance in an instant, spun round and knelt next to Yamcha, eyes shining with unshed tears. "Uncle Yamcha, are you okay?" she asked, afraid to touch him lest she jar something she shouldn't, but wanting nothing more than to hug him in concern and relief.

Still shaking, he flashed a small grin. "I've been on the receiving end of one of Vegeta's punches, baby girl; this is nothing."

"Nothing, eh?" snapped Wagashi. "Well you must be less than that to get put down by it, then."

Remembering the sword, Marron turned and planted her feet in front of Yamcha once more. Wagashi blinked, then narrowed her eyes in comprehension. "I'm not going to hurt him, girl. No more than I already have, anyway. I was going to give him an herb to counter the effects of my attack, but apparently he doesn't need it. You've gotten better at taking beatings at least," she said to Yamcha as her former student stood unsteadily. He opened his mouth to reply, but then turned away and, doubling over, vomited onto the sand.

"Uncle Yamcha!"

"On second thought," said Wagashi, and reached into the pouch situated behind her scimitar. She drew out a single dried leaf and, pushing past Marron, grabbed the gagging Yamcha by his jaw and shoved the herb into his mouth. "Chew."

Yamcha mumbled something under his breath as he obeyed, and Wagashi shook him once, hard. "Don't make me kick your ass again, pup," she warned.

"L-Leave him alone!" cried Marron through her chattering teeth. "What did you do to him?"

"Just stimulated some nerve clusters at the proper energy frequency." Wagashi smirked joylessly. "As for leaving him alone, I've been doing that for thirty years now. We're overdue for a little bonding time, aren't we, 'Uncle Yamcha'?" But her tone did not hold the derisive note it had seconds prior. She seemed almost distracted as Yamcha swallowed the leaf's pulped remains and straightened.

"Wagashi…"

She shot him a look of pure poison.

"Sensei," he amended. "Sensei, why have you come here?"

Folding her arms, the older woman looked away with a scornful grunt. After a moment spent staring out at the ocean, she said, "It wasn't because I'm pissed at you, all evidence to the contrary. If I was really upset about your leaving, I would have chased you down and hauled you back right after you booked. I'm not stupid, pup; I get why you wanted to leave. I made a promise to myself back then to let you go, and before I came here, I promised myself I wouldn't get angry when I saw you." She paused. "I lost my temper for no good reason. I owe you."

Marron was abruptly reminded of Jurai; her dark-haired friend had the same difficulties apologizing that Wagashi seemed to have. Apparently aware of Wagashi's discomfort, Yamcha gave a short nod. "Don't worry about it."

"I'm not." And, as if to prove it, Wagashi reached up and snagged Yamcha by one ear. "Did I mention that you're still a thieving little shit for stealing and bastardizing my technique, though?" she snarled.

Yamcha gave a small yip and protested, "You showed it to me…!"

"I showed you the basics, pup, not the true Fist, and sure as _hell_ not that showy cluster-fuck I saw back there." She rapped his skull with her knuckles; Yamcha cursed. "I realize it's a little late to undo the damage to my reputation, but either you get me to teach you how to do it right or you don't call that pathetic excuse for an attack the Wolf Fang Fist ever again. Otherwise you can kiss any hope of reproducing goodbye. Get me?"

"Yes, sensei," muttered Yamcha, wincing and looking for the life of him like a put-out preteen. Point made, Wagashi released him and stepped back. Yamcha swore under his breath and rubbed at his ear. "You still haven't told me why you're here, though," he said after a moment, furrowing his brow at her.

Wagashi's gaze darkened. A breeze stirred her hair and the sash at her waist. At length, she asked with forced sarcasm: "I need a reason to visit my dear old student?"

"Sensei—"

"Oh, _fine_!" she snapped, lip curling. "I'm dying, pup."

Silence reigned. Still shivering, Marron put her hand to her mouth, and her eyes flew to Yamcha. The former bandit looked pale and stunned. "Don't joke," he said.

"Feh. I wish," snorted the older woman. "On that note, it's probably a good thing I _didn't_ teach you the true Wolf Fang Fist; the doc says that regular use wears out your body, eventually causes it to shut down. Something about generating such a large amount of ki and moving too quickly for too long. Can't take the strain. Who knew?" She shrugged prosaically.

Marron saw Yamcha's rapid-fire thoughts reflected in his eyes: They couldn't use the Dragonballs to help Wagashi since she was dying of natural causes, and senzu beans would likely prove about as effective against the woman's degenerative condition as they had against Goku's heart disease. Yamcha clenched his trembling fists. "Damn it, Wagashi," he snarled, voice disbelieving, "Don't do this to me—"

The next second he was reeling from the impact of Wagashi's fist against his cheek. Before he could fall, the older woman caught him by the shirt collar and hauled him close with an ease that belied Yamcha's superior height and weight. "You think I get off on this or something?" screamed Wagashi in his face. "You think this is payback for you leaving all those years ago? Some kind of vengeful passive-aggressive mindfuck? Go to hell!" She threw Yamcha down on the ground for emphasis, then planted her booted foot firmly in the center of his chest before he could rise. Yamcha's breath left his lungs in a single choking exhalation. "I thought that after all these years you might have grown some balls and realized that it's not always about you, but I see I was mistaken," Wagashi snarled. "I am _not_ here because I want you to cry or beg forgiveness or tell me how sorry you are. I am here because I have a year at best to get my affairs in order and you are the only living person I trust to help me handle them. This isn't pleasure, pup. This is _business_." So saying, she stomped on Yamcha's torso one last time before jumping back, wheezing slightly. Marron watched as Yamcha hauled himself up into a sitting position, glaring at the older woman with equal parts anger and pain in his eyes.

"Four days," Wagashi stated coldly between a series of sharp breaths. "You've got four days, starting tomorrow, to decide whether or not to come back with me and help me get things settled. If you—" Marron shuddered at the deep, painful hacking (or was it the chill making her shake?) that issued from the small woman's chest then. Wagashi stood tall, not convulsing, simply raising a wrist to her lips as thick, growling coughs tore from her lungs and out into the air. When the fit subsided, Wagashi put her arm back at her side; dark patches spotted the section of her sleeve that she'd used to cover her mouth. Ignoring the stains, she continued, "If you decide to come, just call the Hotel Darjeeling near the city center and ask for me. If not, don't bother."

"Wagashi," began Yamcha, but words failed him.

Wagashi frowned at him and rose into the air. "_Sensei_," she corrected. Then, "Pup. Little girl." She nodded at both of them before vanishing up over the edge of the cliff. She did not look back, and Yamcha made no attempt to follow her.

Marron stared at her still-bare feet and tried to wrap her mind around what had just taken place over the long minute following Wagaish's departure. _Poor Uncle Yamcha_, she could only think, shivering. Then she sneezed. That seemed to snap Yamcha out of his own contemplative trance.

"Oh, hell. We need to get you dried off," he said, eyes widening when he saw how violently Marron was trembling.

Her teeth were chattering too hard for her to tell him she was fine, so Marron simply nodded. She made to gather her ki and fly back up to the car where the towels waited, but Yamcha scooped her up in his arms quicker than she could blink. The sudden movement made her feel dizzy. _He's warm,_ she reflected as Yamcha shot up to the top of the cliff. _I guess I was too preoccupied with Wagashi-sensei to think about how cold it is._ And it was cold—cold enough to make her muscles tense and spasm painfully. She closed her eyes and laid the side of her head against Yamcha's comparatively toasty chest. Remembering how Wagashi had kicked him so many times in the ribs, she tried to ask Yamcha if she was hurting him, but, her lips numb, the words came out as an incoherent mumble. The next thing she knew Yamcha was sitting her on the ground outside his car and pulling off her wet jacket.

"M-M-My sh-shoes," Marron remembered.

"I'll go back and get them for you later," promised Yamcha.

_Those were new. Mom will be mad at me if I lose them._ Meanwhile, Yamcha was muttering lowly to himself: "Stupid idiot; 'Let's practice at the beach, she'll feel more comfortable there, it's not like she'll get hypothermia or anything!' Should have grabbed a towel before I let Wagashi talk, stupid, stupid, stupid…"

_You aren't_, Marron wanted to assure him, but she couldn't form the words; her jaw wouldn't work correctly, and she felt sluggish down to her very bones. Yamcha addressed her at his normal volume: "Arms up." Obeying thoughtlessly, the girl raised her hands toward the sky with no small effort, and Yamcha pulled her T-shirt over her head. She squeaked when Yamcha picked her up and removed her track-pants as well. He opened the door to the passenger's seat and set Marron down inside the car. When she tried to protest her near-nakedness, he shook his head and shushed her. "You can get mad at me later."

He swapped Marron's wet clothes for a towel and a woolen blanket from the backseat. The former he wrapped around Marron's shoulders; the latter enveloped her entire body save her head and feet. "Heh, I always knew that blanket would come in handy. Guess I'm not a complete idiot, huh, baby girl? Shit, socks…"

The blanket, thought Marron, _was_ very warm, which was nice, even if she was still cold. Shivering and sleepy, she leaned against the seat back and allowed her eyes to drift shut once again.

Things were strange after that. Later, she would remember the whir of the car-engine; the way the tension emanating from Yamcha felt like a physical thing, a strained miasma that weighed heavily on her even in her half-conscious state; how the heater remained on full blast throughout the entire ride; how Yamcha chanted Wagashi's name amidst a string of swear words until it sounded like a rosary; how, when the car stopped and he lifted her from the seat, it was her father's voice that sounded enraged and her mother who tried to calm him down; how she tried to hold onto the front of Yamcha's shirt even after her mother took her from him; and how, when she slipped into a fever later that night, her worst nightmares were of two wolves fighting a shadowy figure: one of them old and lame, the other scarred and emaciated, only able to howl in defeat as the person in the shadows threw his head back and laughed.


	7. Saints Can't Help Me

Marron would later learn that the combination of her depleted ki and the ice-cold seawater was what had caused her to fall ill—neither factor on its own would have jeopardized her health so severely, but together they made for a nasty case of hypothermia, as most of the energy that her body might have used to fight off the cold had gone towards flight practice instead. So in place of enduring a few sniffles or temporary fatigue, she spent the entire day and night after her and Yamcha's encounter with Wagashi shivering and fighting off fever even as her body tried to recover the energy it had lost. She oscillated between freezing cold and burning hot. Her parents dutifully piled on blankets, took them off again, and forced water down her throat lest she dehydrate. Incoherent and unconscious, Marron remembered none of this; she only woke on the second day, and even then things were muzzy and unclear.

"…Mommy?" she rasped.

A cool hand found her forehead. "I'm here, little one," came #18's voice.

"Where's Uncle Yamcha?"

"He went back to his apartment in the city."

Marron recalled her father's angry shouts. "Did…Dad…?" she started, wanting to know if Yamcha and her father had fought, but she slipped back into uneasy dreams before she could finish or her mother could answer.

* * *

><p>"<em>Yamcha! What—What the hell happened? What happened to my daughter, Yamcha?"<em>

"_Get her warm! I got in a fight—she fell—Just get her warmed up, okay? She might have hypothermia or something, hell, I don't know!"_

"_You said you wouldn't let anything happen to her!"_

"_My crazy ex-sensei showed up and—"_

"_Hey!"_

"_My _other_ crazy ex-sensei—"_

"_All of you, calm down. Krillin, Roshi, get her inside. Dry her and dress her and put her to bed. Get every blanket we own and cover her. You too, pig, and if I catch you in her underwear drawer there won't be a place in the world you can hide from me. _Now!

"_Yamcha, you stay here. Tell me what happened. Yamcha. Look at me."_

"…_God. I can't… I can't do this anymore. I'm such a fuck-up…"_

"_Tell me. What happened. To _Marron_, Yamcha."_

"_We were practicing and she fell into the water. I couldn't catch her in time. I couldn't… fuck…"_

"_How long was she in the water?"_

"_Seconds. But then my teacher showed up and we fought and she kicked my ass and she told me she was dying and I got kind of distracted by that and Marron didn't leave to dry off while we were talking and I didn't think about it and she seemed alright until Wagashi left and then I realized that something was off and she started shivering and I broke every speed limit short of the sound barrier to get her back here and she wouldn't let go of my shirt and now I'm talking to you and there's nothing I can do and—_

_" …Ow."_

"_You're lucky. I can slap a lot harder than that."_

"_It's fine; I probably needed it. Heh. The hell is it with women hitting me today…?"_

"_Maybe it's because you're an idiot."_

"_I wouldn't be surprised."_

* * *

><p>Time passed. When next she woke up, blackness consumed her vision. For a moment Marron panicked—<em>Have I gone blind, somehow?<em>—but then her eyes adjusted enough for her to discern the familiar outlines of the paper airplanes dangling from her ceiling. Relief washed over her, and she sat up, only to jump when she heard something stir beside her. She whipped her head round to find, silhouetted by her nightlight, her father slumbering in a rocking chair wedged between her bed and the wall. His head nodded and his light snores stirred the paper airplanes hanging above him.

_Dad…_ Marron's eyes brimmed. She rose on weak legs and trembling knees, and, taking up a pillow and one of the blankets from her bed, tucked the former behind her father's head and draped the latter across his knees. Amazingly her father did not wake as she did this. _He must have been watching over me for a while to be that tired_, she reflected before returning to her bed, crawling under her covers, and abandoning herself to unconsciousness once more.

* * *

><p>"<em>You look like you need this."<em>

"…_Thanks…You're not gonna chase me out of your house?"_

"_I'd recognize that hand-print anywhere. I'd say that's a good enough punishment. Besides, Marron would be upset if I did."_

"_Is she okay?"_

"_She'll have a hard time of it, but she won't die. 18 says her vitals are strong; she just needs time and attention. So there's nothing for me to get mad at you about. Stop looking like you expect me to ki-blast you, okay? You're making me jumpy."_

_"..."_

_"..."_

"…_How did you do it, Kuririn?"_

"_Well, the trick is heating the milk just right and melting the chocolate beforehand—"_

"_I don't mean the damn hot chocolate. I mean, how did you handle everything that's happened? You were second to Goku from the very start, and now you aren't even that anymore."_

"_Well, thanks."_

"_Sorry. I just wanted to know how you kept going."_

"_You mean, why did I stay with the Z-warriors even though I was essentially useless even before Vegeta came around? Huh. Well, I guess I mostly just didn't know what else to do. I was never great with the ladies like you, and even though I'm weak by Saiyan standards, I'd been fighting since I was a kid; I couldn't really do much else. I was scared when I fought Freeza and Cell, but I kind of figured it would work out in spite of everything. And I guess it did after all." _

"…_Yeah."_

"_18's the greatest thing to happen to me in my whole life. Without her I'd just be hanging around here with Master Roshi. Not that I don't like Master Roshi, but, well…"_

"_He's not a hot blonde with great tits."_

"_That _is_ my wife you're talking about, y'know."_

"_I figure that if you didn't Kienzan my ass for almost getting your only child killed, you won't do it because I complimented your wife."_

"_Smooth-talker."_

"_Heh. Yeah, Bulma always hated that..."_

"…"

"…"

"…_Are you still in love with her?"_

"_Bulma? …I honestly don't know. Some days I daydream about flying to Capsule Corp. and kicking Vegeta's ass right there on the front lawn—winning her back, you know? But I don't know what to call the feeling that comes with that. It feels a lot like regret. Like I lost a fight, and I'm replaying it over and over in my head—if only I'd dodged that kick! If I'd just seen that punch coming! I've spent so much of my life with her, though; I'd say it was love, only…"_

"_It doesn't feel like love."_

"_No, it doesn't—not how it felt when we were kids, anyway. We fought then, too, but things were different, somehow… What would I know about it, though? I thought I loved her when I was younger, but I couldn't have then, either. You can't love someone and cheat on them the way I did."_

"_So you're saying that if you love somebody, you can never hurt them, never make a mistake?"_

"_I didn't mean it like that. The cheating… It wasn't an offhand comment or a petty spat. It was a choice. It was a direct violation of everything love is supposed to be. So I figure either I didn't really love her and I'm a coward for not telling her, or I did and I'm a masochistic idiot for cheating. Hell. I don't know which is worse. Now that I think, I don't know which is _true_." _

"_People fall in and out of love all the time, Yamcha. I just think it took you and Bulma longer to figure it out is all. It doesn't mean you were actively deceiving each other or that you never loved her to begin with."_

"…_Maybe. I don't even know why I care. I'm fifty-two years old; if I haven't found someone by now, I never will."_

"_That's not true, Yamcha. You still have time. Life works in strange ways. I never thought I'd have a wife or a child. I never thought Piccolo would join our side—heck, I never thought Vegeta would, either. But that stuff happened. I don't see why you can't fall in love again, too."_

"_I just feel like I'm stagnating. Everywhere I look I'm reminded of everything I've done wrong. I'm tired. I'm restless. Like back then…" _

"_Yamcha…"_

"…"

"…"

"…_I can't stay here anymore, Kuririn."_

* * *

><p>On the third day, she opened her eyes to find sunlight streaming through her window and her mind the clearest it had been since she'd gotten sick. This time she realized immediately that she was not alone. She rolled over to face the rocking chair, blinking and squinting in the brightness.<p>

"Good morning, Marron. Well, good noontime, but…"

Marron's eyes focused on the speaker. "Master Roshi," she murmured, unable to hide her surprise. Away from his usual haunts in front of the TV or on the beach, wearing an almost serious expression, the Turtle Hermit seemed almost wise as he regarded her over the scarlet rims of his sunglasses, garish Hawaiian-print shirt notwithstanding.

"You gave us all quite a scare," he told her, pushing against the floor with the heel of his sandal to set the chair in motion. Marron sat up. A few strands of her loose hair, stringy with dried sweat, fell over her shoulders.

"I'm sorry," said Marron, not knowing how else to reply.

"Silly girl, you couldn't help it. Your parents are eating lunch downstairs. I thought they deserved a short break. Would you like me to get them?"

Marron shook her head. "That's okay. Thank you for watching over me," she told him politely.

He nodded. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"A little weak. But lots better. My head hurts a little."

"That would be the dehydration. Here," Roshi leaned over and handed her an unopened water bottle from the floor beside him. Marron accepted it, and, just barely managing to twist the cap hard enough to break the seal, took a few long swallows.

"Be sure to drink it all, now. You'll need to get those fluids back," said Roshi.

"Yes, sir," she replied, then hesitated. "How…How many days have I been sick?"

"Let's see. Today is Saturday, so…this is the third day, I believe." The old master paused his rocking. "Yamcha told us what happened."

Marron swallowed. Her throat still felt dry. "Did he tell you whether or not he planned to go with Wagashi-sensei?" she couldn't help but ask.

"I think he will," replied Roshi, subtly sidestepping her real question. "She was his first teacher, and from what I could gather, they have a fair bit to settle between them. And even if she weren't and they didn't, I doubt Yamcha could turn his back on a dying woman."

It was true, thought Marron, shaking the visceral disappointment from her system. If Yamcha weren't the sort of man willing to leave and help his former teacher in her time of need, she wouldn't feel the attachment to him that made the idea of his being away so difficult to handle. Changing the subject, Roshi pointed sideways to the dresser under her window. "He came by earlier this morning and brought you those," he told her.

Marron turned her head forward for the first time. Her navy-and-white sneakers rested atop the dresser. Next to them sat a simple glass vase packed full of miniature daffodils, their tiny golden petals brighter than the sun. Around the vase had been tied a turquoise ribbon. Marron's chest clenched, and she recalled that summer afternoon three months ago when Yamcha had given her the hairclip that even now sat at a place of honor on her bedside table.

"I missed him?" she asked.

"He didn't want to wake you. He said for me to tell you that he hopes you got well soon and that he's sorry," said Roshi neutrally.

_Why didn't he at least wake me to say goodbye? _wondered Marron. _He doesn't have to leave till tomorrow; is he coming again before then?_ She bit her lip, contemplative, as Master Roshi stood creakily and made his way to the door.

"I'll let your father know you're awake. He'll fix you something to eat. And if you ever feel the need to thank me further for my faithful monitoring of your health, there's a certain drawer full of certain things that I would certainly like to peruse—"

The door flew open, smacking the old master on the nose and flattening him between the door and the wall. #18 stood on the other side of the threshold, a steaming bowl in one hand and an unamused glint in her eyes. "Hello, Marron. I've brought you some soup," she said dryly as she stepped into the room. Roshi spasmed and made strangled noises; both mother and daughter were used to this, however, and paid him no mind.

"Thanks, Mom."

"How are you feeling?" #18 put her palm against Marron's brow, her own pale, fine forehead creasing as she appraised her daughter's condition. The scent of the broth she carried reminded Marron that she had not eaten in over two days.

"Hungry," she answered with a small smile, and she forgot about Yamcha in favor of food and family, at least for a while.

* * *

><p>"<em>Hello, Master."<em>

"_Hello, m'boy. Here for a visit? She was still asleep last I checked."_

"_That's fine. I just left the stuff on her dresser. I didn't need to talk to her anyway."_

"_She asked about you. I'm sure she wouldn't have minded if you woke her."_

"_I know she wouldn't have, but I didn't want to."_

"…_Well, your choice. Sit down for a minute. The weather's great. First time in days I've seen the sun."_

"_I guess it gets cloudy even here sometimes."_

"_It gets cloudy no matter where you go. It's part of life. You have sunny times when the air is warm and the girls wear swimsuits, and gray times when they layer up. But the sun always comes out eventually."_

"_You scare me a little when you start trying to be profound."_

"_Watch your mouth, boy. I am the Turtle Hermit, and in addition to being devilishly handsome, I am also infinitely wise. I am always profound."_

"_Sure, Master Roshi."_

"_Which is why I'm telling you that leaving for good won't improve your life as much as you hope it will."_

"..._How did you know? Did Kuririn—"_

"_I don't think he's figured it out, or he'd have tried to stop you by now. Too busy with Marron to think about it, I expect. No, you just have the look of a man ready to bolt, and this Wagashi situation is the perfect excuse to do it. But it gets cloudy everywhere, m'boy. Did running away solve your problems before?"_

"_This isn't like with Cell, Master Roshi. There's nothing—nothing left for me here."_

"_Really? All your friends, your allies—they're nothing?"_

"_I'm nothing to most of them."_

"_I would argue that point, but fine. Let's say that's so. What about those who do care? There's still Kuririn and me. We'd both miss you very much if you were to leave."_

"_Just like you miss Launch, huh? Because you visit and talk about her _so_ often…"_

"_Of course not just like her; she has better boobies."_

"_I'm not in the mood, Master."_

"_Well, that's good, because my tastes gravitate only towards the fairer sex—"_

"_Shut up! Kami, even with you I'm just someone to run circles around, aren't I? Look, I know I haven't been a great guy in any sense of the word. Even discounting the fact that I've lost almost every real battle I've ever been in, I ran away from the woman who raised me just because she was bitchy and I was cocky and I thought I'd be better off on my own; I wound up a thug who used half-assed martial arts techniques to steal whatever I needed; when I finally got a girlfriend who brought me back to civilization, I cheated on her I don't know how many times; then I died thanks to an alien midget with anger-management issues and an ego a mile wide, who, by the way, my girlfriend later dumped me for! Since then I've just been going through the motions, trying to tell myself I still belong, but I don't. So I'm going back with Wagashi and I'm going to make her as comfortable as I can, and I'm going to watch her die, and I'm not going to set foot in this region again if I can help it. I'm done being the guy who can't compare."_

"…"

"…"

"_And what about Marron? You mean a lot to her."_

"_That's…It's just…It's just hero-worship. She sees me as a big brother or something, but she'll forget about me in a year at mo—OW! What the hell is it with everyone hitting me? You're not convincing me to stay, Master!"_

"_I'm sorry, my boy, but I had to check and see if you have an actual brain in there. Since I found that you do, I wonder about your eyes. How many fingers am I holding up?"_

"_Two, why—OW! Quit it! Are you trying to piss me off?"_

"_No. I'm trying to get you to realize something. It's no wonder you've never had a successful relationship if you've always been this bad at reading women who like you."_

"_Right, like I'm gonna take advice from a three-hundred-year-old perv who lives with a pig, a turtle, a dwarf, a robot, and…"_

"…"

"…_No. No, no—that's just—no way. She _can't_."_

"_She does. I'm surprised it took you this long to realize it, given how she's always making goo-goo eyes at you."_

"_I'm older than her father!"_

"_To your credit, you don't look it. People who use ki regularly don't age as quickly as most. It's why the Saiyans tend to have longer life-spans; they're born with higher power levels, and they're trained to use their energy from birth. At least that's Bulma's theory…"_

"_I don't want to hear about Bulma or the Saiyans' biological superiority! I am thirty-eight years older than she is!"_

"_Love is love, my boy."_

"_No. No, it's—don't call it that. It's not. She's only thirteen. It's just a crush. She'll grow out of it."_

"_I wouldn't be too sure about that. Don't be so hasty to judge her feelings, Yamcha; discounting the young is almost as dangerous as discounting the old."_

"…_I've got to go." _

"_Yamcha."_

"…

"_Listen, if baby girl wakes up before tomorrow morning, don't tell her I'm going away for good. I don't want her to know. But do tell her that I hope she feels better, yeah? And that I'm sorry."_

"_You can stay and do that yourself. My house is big enough, and its doors are always open. You don't have to be alone."_

"…"

"…"

"_Goodbye, Master." _


	8. Tear Out Tenderness

Marron drained the soup bowl her mother gave her dry and ate a little bit of steamed rice as well, which pleased her father ("I was worried you'd lose your appetite and my amazing Sick-No-More Soup would go to waste! It's best right off the stove," he said, making Marron grin). Then she took a shower while her mother changed the sheets on her bed. Though she enjoyed the warmth of the steam and the heat of the hair-dryer, even such light activity as bathing left Marron a bit shaky and worn, and she wound up sleeping through dinner and past sunset. When she woke, it was nearly midnight. Her night-light and the glow of the digital clock suffused her room in gentle shades of gold and red. She felt relieved when she found no one stationed at her bedside—she hated that her parents had lost sleep over her illness—but also a little disappointed; knowing that someone would be there when you woke up, she reflected, was strangely comforting, especially when you were sick.

Marron flicked on the lamp next to her bed rather than trying to fall back asleep. After a moment spent rubbing her eyes, she slid off the mattress with the intention to get something to read until she felt tired again, but her feet carried her past the bookshelf and over to her dresser. The window above it looked as if ink had been spilled across the glass, but Marron was not interested in the view. She gazed at the bright bouquet Yamcha had left her, which was just as fresh and beautiful as it had been that morning. She reached out, briefly rubbed the thick, silky ribbon between her thumb and forefinger, and then prodded at one of the flowers, which was feathery and cool to the touch.

"I'll give you fresh water every day," she promised the blossoms. "And maybe I can dry you when you start to wilt. That way even when I get older, I'll be able to remember and laugh about how I fell in the water and got sick. Not that I think I could forget it, but you know how it is."

The flower she had poked bobbed its head agreeably. Her oversized T-shirt fluttered against her lower thighs as Marron leaned against the dresser, contemplative.

"I'm sad he's leaving," she admitted. "I really am. But he'll be back soon, hopefully—Oh, geez, that came out wrong. I don't want Wagashi-sensei to die quickly... I mean, don't want her to die at all!" She fretted without stopping to consider that she was speaking to flowers rather than people who would actually care about her word choice. "I just meant that since Uncle Yamcha's not going away _forever_, I can deal with it…"

Marron trailed off then, frowning at the curious prickle that had risen on the nape of her neck as she'd spoken. _That's weird. _Something felt wrong, somehow; she sank her teeth into her lower lip. _Why do I feel I've forgotten something important?_ She puzzled over the impression for an intense interval, feeling as though she were trying to recall the tune of a song she only vaguely remembered. Then from her tangle of thoughts, Master Roshi's voice drifted to the fore:

"_He said for me to tell you that he hopes you get well soon, and that he's sorry."_

_Get well soon. Sorry_. Something about the way Master Roshi had said those words bothered her. It was the finality of them, she realized. What bothered her was how strangely final the words had sounded on Roshi's lips. Especially the _sorry_ bit; at first she had assumed it referred to the incident with Wagashi, but now...

"…_he hopes you get well soon..._"

Her eyes slid to the left and fell on her sneakers. Moving as if in a dream, she reached out and took up the nearest shoe. A small square of folded paper had been tucked between its laces. Marron nudged it out and, allowing her sneaker to fall back onto the dresser, she opened the note with trembling hands.

"…_and that he's sorry."_

**Marron,** it read,

**I hope you get this note before Master Roshi opens his big mouth. I didn't have the guts to say it to your face, but I still want to be the one who tells you that I'm not planning on coming back to West City after I settle Wagashi's affairs. Before you start worrying, it's ****not your fault****. I'm going away for a number of reasons, but none of them have to do with you. I've had more fun on our dates over these past few months than I have in years, and what you told me at the park that day has gotten me through quite a few sleepless nights. Even if it was kind of a disaster, I enjoyed teaching you to fly, too. You'll be faster than any bird in no time if you keep it up. You're dad's a great teacher. He can help you with the tricky parts. **

**Please tell Jurai I'm sorry that we all won't be able to have lunch together like I said. She's a good friend, so be sure to hold onto her. Good friends are rare.**

**You're a beautiful, smart young lady, baby girl. I know you don't think so, but it's absolutely true. Someday you'll find a nice boy who thinks you're as great as I do, and you'll be as happy as your mom and dad are, because you deserve it, and God is fair. I should know—I've met him. **

**Best wishes,**

**Yamcha**

At first, Marron failed to understand exactly what Yamcha was saying, as though her brain, not wanting to believe it, had automatically scrambled the message in self-defense. _What does he mean, not planning on coming back? He means "not right away," right? Is he going to take a detour to meet up with Puar before he gets to the city…? _she wondered. Slowly, however, the realization sank in:

_He's not coming home…at all?_

Marron honestly felt as though she was going to throw up then. Clutching the note, she took a couple steps backward and wound up banging her hip on the bedpost. She barely felt it, though a part of her knew she would be sporting a bruise soon enough. She stood quivering and focused on taking deep, cleansing breaths in order to keep herself from hyperventilating, the way her father had taught her to do when she got too anxious. The moment her nausea subsided, however, she abandoned calmness; rising panic granting her speed she typically did not possess, Marron threw on the first pair of jeans she could find, tugged on her sneakers, and fled the warm light of her room for the darkness of the house beyond. The note fluttered to the floor behind her.

Master Roshi's bedroom, which he shared with Oolong and Umigame, was situated on the first floor next to Kame House's kitchen. Marron passed through the living room and into the short, narrow downstairs hall, feeling her way down the painted walls until her hand found the hermit's doorknob. She wrenched the door open, though not as quickly as she might have liked for fear of waking one or both of her parents. Roshi snorted and woke when she stormed in. "You lied to me," she accused, the door clicking shut behind her.

She could not see Roshi's face in the darkness as he sat up and said, groggily but not a bit guiltily: "It's true. I admit it: babies are not delivered via pterodactyl. Your seven years of ignorance end today."

"I meant about Uncle Yamcha!" Her voice hitched as she spoke. "I _know_, Master Roshi. I found out he's leaving for good."

Silence. Roshi shifted. "When and how?" asked the old master finally, sounding weary.

"He left me a note. I just now found it. Oh, kami, what if he's gone already? Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

Marron could feel his gaze on her even in the dark. "Because we need to let him go," Roshi said simply.

Tears pooled in Marron's eyes. "What? How can you say that? We can't let him go off all alone! He's—he's like family, and…!"

The Turtle Hermit answered without emotion, "Yamcha's felt trapped here for a long, long time. He no longer fights, and without that or Bulma to tie him to everyone, he feels as though he has nothing left to offer the Z-fighters. Add the fact that he's burned quite a few bridges with people in the city as well, and it's a recipe for loneliness and frustration. I think Yamcha was happiest when he was living by his own rules, out in the desert with no boundaries or standards save for those he set for himself. If he wants to return to that, who are we to stop him? He's done enough, Marron," he sighed. "Let him rest."

It was the longest serious statement Roshi had ever made that Marron could remember, and it stung worse than a slap to the face. She stood without replying, stiff and conflicted, clutching the hem of her shirt in consternation. The last thing she'd ever wanted was to be a bother, a worry, a thorn in Yamcha's side, or anything that might cause him to think poorly of her. As a rule, imposing her will on other people made her feel profoundly uncomfortable because she felt that she had very little to offer them in return._ If I can't be useful_, she had always reasoned, _the least I can do is avoid being a burden_. She did not know from whence this mindset had come, but it had been a part of her for as long as she could remember, and that part of her was currently urging her to accept Roshi's advice. _If he'll be happier without you, you should let him go. Doesn't loving someone mean wanting them to be happy no matter what? All you'll do at this point is make him feel guilty. Do you want to keep him from what he really needs? From his freedom?_

_But,_ she argued with herself, agonized, _I want him to love me too_.

_And who are you? Just some kid who's never so much as kissed a boy, let alone dated one. You're no prize. You'd be a burden to him even if he weren't going._

_But he is going; I'll never see him again! He'll never know how I feel, _the other part of her cried. And at that moment, Marron realized that there were in fact things more intolerable to her than being a burden.

She turned away from Master Roshi without a reply and fixed her gaze on the cot in the corner of the room. "Oolong," she said.

The pig snored on.

"_Oolong_."

No response. Another snore.

"Oolong!" Marron snapped. "Stop pretending to be asleep!"

Annoyed, Oolong cracked one eye open. "What?" he grouched. "Isn't it enough that you woke me up in the first place?"

Marron refused to cringe and apologize at this, though she dearly wanted to. "You can drive an air-car, right?" she asked instead.

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

"Answer the question!" barked Marron, feeling her ki flare weakly in response to her urgency and annoyance. What she could see of the shapeshifter looked suddenly intimidated.

"Alright, alright! Yes, I can drive a stupid air-car! But there's no way, no how I'm taking you to Yamcha's apartment or anywhere else, sister. I need my shut-eye. I'm not about to play driver in the middle of the night!"

Marron thought fast. _If you can't convince him, bribe him_, said the voice in her head that sounded like Jurai. She screwed up her courage. "If you do it, I'll give you a pair of my," she flushed, swallowing, "m-my panties, if you drive me."

Oolong regarded her incredulously, vague horror wrinkling his shadowed snout. "Are you crazy? You're just a kid. That'd be sick! No dice." He rolled over on his mattress and pulled the covers over his head. Seeing her chance about to slip away, Marron blurted as an idea occurred to her,

"I—I can get you a pair of my mother's!"

Oolong shot out of bed so fast that Marron only caught a blur of movement and a flash of sheets. The pig latched onto her knee, eyes worshipful. "You're serious? No foolin'? Yowza! For that I'll ferry you whenever you want, girlie!" he said, grinning at the prospect of obtaining his long-standing goal without having to risk #18 catching him in the act. Marron returned the smile weakly—_Sorry, Mom. I'll think of _something—then, remembering Roshi, she turned to face the master.

"I know you don't think I should go. But," she said, hardening her eyes, "if you promise not to stop me or tell my parents where I've gone, I'll get _you_ the matching bra."

Roshi stiffened. Then, nodding once, he grabbed a tissue from his bedside table and held it to his bleeding nose. Head pulled into his shell in blissful ignorance, Umigame slept peacefully on the floor while Roshi stuffed Kleenex up his nostrils and Marron and Oolong, who was still dressed in his pajamas, crept silently from the room and down the hall.

Luckily for them, Marron's parents kept the capsule that housed the family air-car in an easily-accessible wooden box by the front door. Marron took it with only the smallest twinge of guilt; the pill-shaped container was cool against her sweating palm as she and Oolong slipped outside. Once as far away from the house as they could go, Marron released the seal and tossed the capsule. The car puffed into existence.

"Hurry," Marron urged Oolong, voice cracking in her nervousness, "hurry!"

"Keep your shirt on, girlie, I'm doin' the best I can." The pig climbed into the driver's seat. Marron hopped in behind him and buckled her seatbelt. A thought occurred to her.

"Can you reach the pedals?"

"If it's short enough for Kuririn, it's short enough for me." Oolong adjusted the seat, gave the dials a once-over, and pressed the ignition button. The car lifted silently off the ground and sped away over the water.

For Marron the ride passed in a blur for a number of reasons. Chief among those was her preoccupation with an all-consuming dread that Yamcha might already have already departed with Wagashi and that they would get to his apartment too late; a close second, however, was that while Oolong had not been lying when he'd said he could drive an air-car, Marron had in her desperation and naïveté taken for granted that Oolong could drive an air-car _well_. They dipped dangerously low to the waves more than once; the vehicle wove and bobbed sickeningly as it made its way up from the sea and, in what Marron felt almost certain was an illegal maneuver, over a guardrail onto an obscure cliffside road that led windingly to their destination. "Don't you know how to steer this thing?" asked Marron. Her pallor went from white to green as the car lurched leftward, then swerved right.

"Give me a little credit here! I grew up driving normal cars! Moving in the air is different from moving on the ground."

"Don't I know it," the girl replied under her breath.

Jerking the wheel, Oolong reflected grumpily, "I should have thought this through. Your mom's gonna kill me if she catches wind of this anyhow; I should have just risked my neck grabbing the underwear myself instead of agreeing to chauffeur a lovesick teenager around—_again_. At least the first way I'd've died happy…"

Annoyed at being compared to Bulma, Marron cut her eyes at the pig. "The sooner we get there, the sooner we get back, and the less chance my mom has of catching us. So drive," she snapped. "Um… Please?" she added more quietly, feeling bad.

Oolong rolled his eyes and flipped a switch that brought the air-car down to the earth.

Soon enough, they passed by the buildings marking West City's perimeter and drove toward the heart of the metropolis. The colorful splendor of the downtown streets took Marron's mind briefly away from her motion-sickness and anxiety. She had never seen the city at night before. The place teemed with people just as it did in the daytime; the thirteen-year-old watched a young couple stroll down the sidewalk, bundled up in jackets and scarves yet huddling against each other for warmth. The boy said something that made the girl laugh, and Marron had a sudden, painful vision of her and Yamcha in their place—would that she were older and more mature, would that he were younger and less fed up; would that they both believed in themselves more; would that he knew, and would that she had the courage to tell him…

Oolong interrupted her brooding by turning onto a side street. The light around them slowly transitioned from the cheerful, garish variety that had spilled from the shops and restaurants downtown to the dim luminescence of the randomly-distributed streetlamps stationed passively on lonesome sidewalks. Their subdued glow more unbound the surrounding darkness into vague layers of gray in place of actually illuminating anything; they made the normally benign city streets appear dreamlike and sinister around them. Marron felt a spark of gratitude for their car's reliable headlights as Oolong made another turn, then another. Finally, after driving about a block down one street in particular, he parked on the street beside a nondescript apartment building.

"You'll have to be buzzed in. He's in 4B," said the shapeshifter, powering down the car. "Don't blame me if you can't get up there, or if he calls your parents after you do."

Marron swallowed. A thousand different possibilities of failure and embarrassment flashed through her mind, and her palms began to sweat anew. Still, no result would have been as painful as turning back without trying. She'd made it this far; she could make it the rest of the way. She had to. "Thank you, Oolong. You'll wait here?" she asked, unbuckling her seatbelt.

"Not like I have anything better to do." The pig adjusted his seat so it leaned as horizontal as it could go, then put his hands behind his head and shut his eyes. "Take your time."

Shaking her head in disbelief, Marron got out of the car.

It was, as usual, colder in the city than at Kame House, but this time, Marron scarcely noticed. Running a hand through her messy hair and hoping against hope that her bedraggled appearance would evoke pity rather than suspicion from whoever was in charge of letting her in, she drew up to the front door of the apartment building. A single orange bulb illuminated it, casting ghoulish shadows on the concrete around her. Marron mashed the button next to the metal speaker that would connect her to the night-guard. "H-Hello?" she stammered, then released the button and waited. Just as she'd grown certain that no one had heard her and prepared to hit the buzzer again, a voice crackled from the other side:

"Yeah?"

Marron glanced nervously at the small circle of glass embedded by the communication system, knowing it was a video camera. "I...I'm here to talk to my uncle, Yamcha. I was in the city with my friends and we got separated, and…I need him to call my parents to come get me." The lies burned her tongue. She pressed on: "He's in 4B."

No reply came. Then a low clicking noise made her jump. She realized it signified the door had been unlocked, and, wetting her lips, she pressed the button again and said, "Thank you," before tugging open the door and slipping into the apartment building.

The lobby was—clean. Truthfully it had very few features beyond that; the place was almost unnerving in its blandness. Nondescript solid carpets lay over nondescript solid tiles; the walls were the color of oatmeal, and a plain square mirror hung on one of them, reflecting nothing save the wall opposite it. Steeling herself, Marron passed through the depressingly characterless front area and into the stairwell, which smelt of old disinfectant and dust. Her heart pounded as she made her way up the dense concrete steps. Her footfalls echoed through the empty chamber. _Uncle Yamcha lives in this place_? _No wonder he's leaving. It's…sad,_ she thought as she climbed.

By the time she reached the fourth floor, her breath came harder and faster. _I guess I'm not all better yet. I should have taken the elevator_, reflected Marron, bracing her hands on her knees and doubling over in an attempt to catch her wind more quickly. She thought of Wagashi hacking into her sleeve, how the fabric had come away bloody. _Poor Wagashi-sensei. None of this is her fault. I don't want to keep him from helping her; I just want him to come back after he does_. She straightened. The blood flowing down from her head made her momentarily dizzy, but soon she continued into the fourth floor hallway, which boasted all the depressing simplicity of the lobby but lacked its illumination. 4B waited for her, the second door to the right.

_Please, let him be there_. Marron swallowed, closed her eyes, and knocked.

The wait for this response proved far more agonizing than the last. Too petrified to fidget and too nervous not to, Marron wound her fingers together in front of her legs in an inverted position of prayer and clenched her hands until the knuckles went white. Seconds passed. _Please, I'll do anything; just let him be—_

The door opened. Yamcha stood before her in sweatpants and a T-shirt, barefoot and shocked. He looked as though he wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't imagining her. For a moment, Marron wasn't sure that she wasn't imagining him, either. Then he spoke:

"Marron?"

Relief washed through her. "Hi," she managed shakily.

They stood for a moment, each processing the other. _I must look horrible_, thought Marron, then, _Why am I thinking about that right now?_ She blurted, "Can I—" at the same moment Yamcha began, "Come on—." She clapped a hand over her mouth, embarrassed.

"Sorry," she said quickly.

Yamcha actually smiled a little then. "Come on in," he repeated, stepping to the side and holding the door open for her. Wordlessly, Marron complied.

* * *

><p>She'd thought she might see boxes, capsules, and lots of empty space: in fact the apartment showed no signs that its owner planned to depart. Marron had wondered about Yamcha's apartment more than once. Would its interior be messy, careworn, and littered with the sort of reading material Master Roshi and Oolong delighted in? Or would it be clean and modern, all sleek masculine lines and unadorned angles? Having next to no idea what to expect from a standard bachelor pad, she had never been able to come to a conclusive mental picture. It turned out, she found as she stepped into the combination living area-and-kitchenette directly on the other side of the door, to be a mix of the two—minus the porn mags, she noted with no small amount of relief. Neither especially clean nor dirty, with simple but comfortable-looking furniture, Yamcha's apartment looked thoroughly normal, even pleasant. There was a large TV, a complex-looking stereo system, and a set of shelves built into the walls that were filled with books, framed photographs, and various memorabilia from Yamcha's baseball days. Yet Marron couldn't shake the feeling that there was a lonely air to the place that even the golden lamplight and personal touches couldn't banish. The apartment was so quiet, and it felt too big for one person. The door closed behind her.<p>

"Want something to drink?" asked Yamcha, voice holding none of the surprise he'd displayed moments earlier.

"Um, no thank you," she replied reflexively, then kicked herself for it; having a drink would have at least given her something to focus on to make the situation less nerve-wracking.

Yamcha shrugged. "Suit yourself. You mind if I keep doing dishes?"

She shook her head. "N-Not at all."

He moved to the corner of the kitchenette and turned on a tap. Marron noticed a bevy of cups and bowls huddled in the sink. She perched on a wooden stool situated on the living-room side of a tiled counter that marked the edge of the kitchen and watched Yamcha's shoulders move as he scrubbed the dishware with practiced ease. He had nice shoulders, she found herself musing. Even covered by the T-shirt, they looked muscular, yet not bulgingly huge like many of the Z-fighters'. She remembered Mei cooing and laying her hand on his upper arm, and she reflected that she really couldn't fault the girl for that… She shook herself, steering her idle thoughts back to the task at hand, wondering how she should proceed. _How do I even start telling him that I don't want him to leave?_ she thought. _How do I tell him why?_

Luckily, Yamcha solved her hesitation. "Master Roshi blabbed, huh?" he asked over the rush of cascading water.

Habit brought a blush to her cheeks though he was not looking at her. "He didn't. I found your note."

"Hmm." Yamcha shut off the tap and dried his hands, studying the ceiling. "Yeah, that was kind of stupid of me to leave it right there. I figured you wouldn't be paying attention to your sneakers for a while longer, till you got completely better." His tone gave no indication of what he was feeling. Marron recalled their afternoon at the park: "Do you like hotdogs?" he'd asked in the same way, as though nothing had happened or was happening. She felt a twinge in her heart at the memory, and felt her resolve solidify.

"I'm glad you did," she told him. "It gave me a chance to try and stop you."

When Yamcha turned to face her, he appeared almost amused. "Oh, yeah?"

_Something's off. He's acting strangely_, cautioned a little voice in her head. "Yes. I don't want you to leave for good, Uncle Yamcha."

He set the towel down on the countertop next to him. "I'm going, Marron," he stated casually. "I've made my decision."

_Not baby girl. Marron_. She faltered, then regrouped. "I…I didn't say you hadn't. I'm here to convince you to unmake it."

"And how are you planning on doing that?" Yamcha somehow managed to sound both genuinely curious and as though he were asking a child exactly how they planned to build that rocket-ship to the moon. Nowhere in his voice was any indication that he felt she could succeed. Instead of shaking him, she pointed out,

"There are people here…they care about you. You can't leave them."

"Master Roshi told me the same thing. Try again."

Marron looked confused at him. "That's not enough?"

The indulgent cast to Yamcha's face did not alter. "Let's see. The way I figure it, only you, Master Roshi, and your father genuinely enjoy having me around and don't just tolerate me out of habit or a sense of obligation—and don't bring up Goku; he cares about everyone equally. But even you guys got along just fine without me before I ran into you that day you were shopping for school supplies. Your dad and Roshi left me to my own devices for years. It's not their fault; people drift out of touch all the time. But as it is now, our relationship isn't enough to keep me here. Would you see it that way?" he asked, infuriatingly matter-of-fact as he spoke. "You all might miss me, but you'll get over it eventually," he concluded, returning to the dishes. "Try again, Marron."

The very idea that she could forget Yamcha stung Marron into temporary speechlessness. Carefully she rested her hands against the counter, hoping the coolness of the tile would allay their subtle tremors. Her throat worked soundlessly. Finally, she managed a reply: "That's not true. My dad and Master Roshi may be fine, but I won't be. I will never stop missing you. Not ever."

Despite the conviction in her tone, he merely shrugged and cut off the water. "You think that now, but…"

Her blue eyes fierce and bright and unyielding, Marron shook her head. "I don't think it. I know it, because I'm in love with you," she said.

Yamcha glanced over his shoulder at her again. A heartbeat passed between the moment an indistinct wave of emotion flickered through his gaze and the moment his face fell into a perfect, blank mask. Then, head ducking down, he began to make small noises that Marron thought signaled the beginning of tears. She made to stand and comfort him, but then the noises grew louder and his head lifted up again.

Yamcha was laughing.

His back heaved. His shoulders shook. He did not even try to contain his mirth as he wiped moisture from the corners of his eyes with his hand. His were not derisive chuckles or amused snorts; he quite simply laughed long and hard as Marron's face went white and stunned.

"You love me," he giggled when he'd regained some semblance of control. "You love me. Wow, Marron. That's just. I didn't believe Roshi when he told me, but wow." He turned to face her fully, looking thoroughly engrossed. "You love me. I don't even. _Wow_."

_This is a nightmare. This is a nightmare from which I will wake up very shortly_, Marron told herself, all the while begging the universe to make it so. "I…I do," she rasped. Yamcha leaned against the sink, crossing his arms and grinning.

"I can't even get my head around it. You're thirteen years old—thirty-eight years younger than I am—and, no offense, you act younger. You had never so much as been to the city on your own before we met up on accident—which only happened because you got yourself lost, I might add, and you didn't have the guts to even ask someone for directions. Then I come and do you a favor, buy you something pretty, take you out to eat once or twice just because you asked me to, and you, who I'm willing to bet my right arm has never had a boyfriend and who barely understands how sex works, conveniently ignore that I'm older than your own father and that I'm a liar and a cheater, and you decide that you're in _love_ with me?" He looked her dead in the eye. "That is the dumbest, most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," he said. And he began to laugh again.

He could not have hurt her more if he had slapped her. This was the worst thing she had ever fantasized Yamcha might say to her—a genuine nightmare ripped straight from her most insecure daydreams. And he hadn't so much as frowned as he'd said it, like any disturbance he might have felt at the information had been drowned out by its intrinsic hilarity. Too stunned to even cry, Marron could only sit and stare at him. She wanted to scream; she wanted sob; she wanted to die. It was as though he'd planned exactly what to say in order to hurt her the very most, then let the words fly hoping that she would never want to think about him again afterwards…

_Wait._

She gulped and prayed. "Uncle Yamcha," she said, making one last, desperate gamble on this momentary hunch, "you're full of it."

He stopped laughing. Quickly his smile snapped into place and he continued to regard her with amused detachment, but the fraction of a second it had taken for his expression to solidify made Marron's confidence in her perception rise. She kept her eyes on him. Her voice trembled with the remnants of the pain she'd felt and the gathering certainty she was beginning to feel: "I know you, Uncle Yamcha. I've seen you when you're upset; I've seen you when you hate something, and I've seen you when you think somebody's being stupid. This isn't like you. You're not the sort of person who laughs in somebody's face when they're only telling you how they feel. If you like what they're saying, you smile. If you don't like what they're saying, you frown. But you would never laugh at them or say that what they feel is dumb, because you're a good man and you know how it feels to be belittled and written off. So I think you're full of it. You don't mean what you said."

Yamcha raised an eyebrow. There was no humor in his face now. "Oh, really? If you know me so well, then why did I say it?" he asked lowly.

"Because…" She struggled for a moment to articulate her thoughts. "Because you don't want me to follow you. I'd never stop you from going with Wagashi-sensei, because she needs you more than I do right now. The only reason you'd need to treat me this way, to make me hate you, was if you were worried that I might come after you later; the best way to ensure that I won't is to make it so I don't _want_ to find you. And since you can easily hide your ki so that neither I nor any of the other Z-fighters could pick up on where you were, it must not be because you're worried about being tracked down, so much as you are worried about me trying to locate you. Maybe you think I need to move on, or maybe you're afraid something bad might happen to me while I'm looking. But either way, you care about me."

After a moment's pause, Yamcha scoffed. "You're a selfish little girl. It's not because I care about you any more than anyone else. It's because I don't want you getting Goku to track me. He could still find me even without sensing my ki, if only because he can move so quickly. The last thing I need is him Instant-Transmission-ing himself into my bathroom or something with you in tow," stated Yamcha flatly.

"My dad could get Goku to find you just as easily," she contended, ignoring the "selfish" comment. "He cares about you, too, and he's more loyal than anyone. You said so yourself once. But you aren't trying to make _him_ hate you."

"I don't need to. Unlike you, Kuririn knows when to leave well enough alone. He won't follow me if I ask him not to."

It was plausible reasoning, but Marron refused to be cowed. "You care about me," she repeated. "I know you do. So stop acting this way, Uncle Yamcha."

Yamcha's countenance was beginning to darken. "You're wrong. I only _acted_ like I cared about you because I was bored. Hanging out with you was just a way to kill time," he sneered.

"Your note—"

"I wrote that before I knew you were "in love" with me. Then when I learned about your little fantasy, I realized that it was too much trouble being nice to you anymore and that I had to give it to you straight, or else I'd never get you off my back," Yamcha snorted. "Face it, Marron. You're deluding yourself right now."

"I don't believe you! I know you're not this way!" asserted Marron, every ounce of stubbornness she could summon lacing her words.

Yamcha spent a bare second regarding her with an unreadable expression. Then he stormed abruptly out of the kitchenette and into the living area, where he pulled away couch cushions, moved small piles of newspapers and magazines from the side tables and put them back again, glanced under the coffee table. He swore and muttered: "Damn thing's never where it's supposed to be…"

Marron slid off the stool and followed him. "Uncle Yamcha!" she cried insistently.

"I'm not your fucking uncle, Marron!" he shouted, spinning round to her and making her jump. "I'm not your uncle, I'm not your big brother, and I'm sure as hell not your goddamn knight in shining armor. What I am is going to call your parents so they can take you home. So be a good little girl and shut the hell up while I find my phone." He resumed looking.

"Why are you still being this way?" demanded Marron, voice cracking, a few tears spilling from her eyes unbidden. She blocked him when he tried to emerge from between the sofa and coffee table. "Is it so bad that I'll try to find you?"

Yamcha gave a slightly unhinged laugh. "Look at how much trouble you're causing me before I've even left! I need to live my own goddamn life, and you need to live yours. Move!"

"No!" She lifted her chin, defiant, eyes flashing sapphire-sharp.

The older man looked at her for a long moment. "Alright then," he said lowly. Then he picked her up bodily, tucked her under his arm, and carried her across the room, saying, "I'll just take you home myself then."

Her world almost literally turned upside-down, Marron squirmed and kicked in an attempt to free herself. "Let—me—go!" she cried, clawing ineffectually at the back of his leg. Yamcha gave another one of those broken-sounding chuckles.

"Scream," he told her, grabbing his keys from a metal stand by the door, "and I'll knock you out."

"You wouldn't…!"

"Just try me, _baby girl_."

Something in her snapped at that: she craned her head around and bit him hard. Yamcha yelped like a surprised dog and dropped both her and the keys onto the hardwood floor. The impact hurt, but Marron grabbed his keys and scrambled away while Yamcha spun round to follow her. "Marron!"

She was already at the bathroom door. Once in, she saw Yamcha's cell phone sitting on the counter by the sink. She tossed both objects into the toilet, then jabbed the flush button just before Yamcha to grabbed her by the wrist. _Too late_, she thought at him wildly as a burst of roaring pressurized water jettisoned his keys and phone down the drain. She heard Yamcha swear, and then he hauled her out of the restroom, took her by her upper arms, and slammed her up against the white wall with enough force to set her head spinning. He bared his teeth and glared down at her.

"You," he growled, "have no _idea_ what you're doing."

Wincing, Marron cracked open one blue eye. "You're hurting me…!"

"_Good_!" he yelled, making her cower. "Think of it as training, because you know what, baby girl? Life is pain. It sucks when you're a kid and it sucks when you're an adult and it sucks when you get old and then you die, and maybe you go to heaven when you do, but in the end, there's no goddamn point to any of it, because we're born alone and we die alone and in the end, we'll always _be_ alone! Some people fight, thinking they can get away from it; some people fool themselves into thinking that love makes all the crap worthwhile. But you can't, and it doesn't. Because fighting and love? Those things hurt worst of all, and nothing changes no matter who you kill or fuck." When Marron flinched, Yamcha scoffed. "I forget I'm in the presence of a minor. I'm curious: just what the hell would you have _done_ if I'd told you, 'Sure, Marron, I love you too even if that makes me a pedophile in addition to an absolute creep!'? What did you think would _happen_?"

Yamcha's fingers dug clawlike into her flesh; she squirmed in an attempt to alleviate the pressure on her arms. "I-I d-didn't—I just wanted…"

"You don't know _what_ you want," derided Yamcha.

"I want you!" she countered, shaking her head violently. "I _love_ you… I want you near me, that's all…!"

Yamcha laughed. His tone took on a familiar edge of self-loathing. "No. Believe me, little girl, you don't. I fuck up everything I touch."

"That's not true!"

"Oh, isn't it?" he snarled. "Then explain why everyone I've ever cared about has left me. Explain why the only woman I've ever loved dumped me for a man without an affectionate bone in his body. Explain why I can pick up and leave with Wagashi without needing to tell anyone goodbye. Explain why after everything I've done, I'm old and alone and irrelevant, and the only person who's trying to keep me here is a thirteen-year-old with romantic delusions!"

Her tears were flowing freely now. "I…I…"

"You can't, can you? I thought as much."

"I don't know about any of that…!" choked Marron through her sobs, "But you're n-not irrelevant to me, and I'm not delusional. I l-l-love you, and I promise I w-won't leave, so you don't have to be afraid anymore. Just please don't pretend you h-hate me. Please…" She bowed her head, tears dripping onto her T-shirt. "I d-don't know what to do if you hate me…"

Words failed her then, and she could only cry. She remained pinned against the wall for a good half-minute, sobbing as quietly as she could. The mist of grief and tears blanketing her vision prevented her from properly discerning Yamcha's face. Had she seen it, however, she would not have missed the moment the angry flame in his eyes flickered and died. The scorn leaked from his countenance; its replacement, something raw as a freshly-healed wound, mixed with a profound weariness in his gaze. Slowly, gently, he set her on her feet and released her.

"I give up," he murmured. The ghost of a chuckle escaped him. He turned away, braced his arm on the opposite wall, and leaned his forehead against it.

She swiped at her eyes, trying to see him. "Uncle Yamcha…?"

"You do know you just make the whole I'm-in-love-with-you thing more awkward when you call me that, right?" he asked with a humorless smile.

She swallowed. "Y-…Yamcha," she corrected herself. "D-Does this mean…?"

A long sigh. "Of course I don't hate you, baby girl. I don't think I ever could." He rolled his forehead over his arm. "This is why I didn't say goodbye to you face-to-face," he continued, speaking more to himself than to her. "Only you could convince me to come back."

Resisting the urge to hug him right then and there, Marron hiccupped once. "…Will you?" she whispered.

For a long time, he did not answer. He rubbed his forehead, then turned to her: "You realize, of course, that it would never work out between us. By the time you were old enough to have a relationship, I'd be what, fifty-six years old? That would give us twenty, thirty years together if we were lucky. I know that seems long to you because you're still young, but take it from me, it's not. Even if I stayed healthy, I'd make you a widow sooner rather than later."

"People die every day. Even young people," Marron pointed out softly.

"That's very true," conceded Yamcha, "but there's a difference between accepting that you could get run over by a bus and standing out in the road daring one to hit you, which is, metaphorically speaking, what someone your age would be doing if they married someone my age. It would be a matter of when, not if."

"I know that," replied the thirteen-year-old, fidgeting. "I've already thought about it. And…and I don't care."

"Marron…"

"I've been afraid of everything all my life, Uncle Yamcha," she continued, not meeting his gaze. "I'm tired of it. I don't want fear to keep me from the things I care about anymore. I'd rather have a person I love by my side for twenty years than a person I don't for fifty. I'd rather fly than stay safe on the ground." She regarded his consternated expression with a twinge of shy amusement. "How did that saying go—_You're a fool if you dance; you're a fool if you watch; so you might as well dance_?"

Yamcha sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "I regret teaching you that, suddenly." Then he closed his eyes. "I can't believe I'm even _talking_ about this. It can't happen. No way."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because I told you, I'm older than your father! I hit middle age before you were three! I changed your diapers, for kami's sake! It's sick. It's wrong. It's—It's just _wrong_. And even if I weren't so much older than you, I'm still a liar and a loser and a cheater and…" He cut himself off and blinked at her. "Why are you looking at me that way…?"

Marron tried to temper the quiet, hopeful joy that she knew was shining in her eyes and failed miserably. "Because," she told him softly, "you haven't said 'Because I don't love you back.'"

He stared at her. Slow realization worked its way over his features. He blanched. "Oh. God…"

"Uncle Yamcha-"

He clawed a hand through his hair. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck—no. No. I'm not—you're wrong. No. I'm not a goddamn pedophile, I haven't sunk that low, I'll die first…" He began to walk rapidly through the house, eyes wild, like a caged wolf. Marron followed hot on his heels into the living room, which Yamcha's frenzied search had left in considerable disarray.

"Wait," she panted. "Hold on, Uncle Yamcha…"

He spun round to face her. "Don't _call_ me that, for fuck's sake!"

She cringed. "I'm sorry!"

"And don't apologize all the time! Do you have any idea how that makes me feel? Like a huge asshole, that's how!" he cried.

"I'm sorry!"

"Stop it!"

"I'm sor-!" She cut herself off just in time. "I mean, um…okay," she corrected herself.

Growling in stark frustration, Yamcha collapsed into a black faux-leather chair, head falling into his hands. "Fuck me," he uttered, and was silent.

Marron stood worryingly near him, half-afraid he was going to turn a ki blast on himself. When he didn't, she drew up closer.

"Unc—I mean, Yamcha?" she said tentatively.

He didn't look up.

"I, um. I don't think you're a pedophile."

Yamcha gave a low groan.

She pressed on: "B-Because pedophiles are only attracted to children, and technically I'm not a child anymore…"

"Marron?" he interrupted.

She perked up. "Yes?"

"You're not helping."

_That sounded better in my head_, she reflected with a wince. "Sorry. But, um, pedophiles are attracted to kids throughout their lives. And, um, you haven't been. You'd probably never even thought about having a relationship with me before I told you that I loved you. Right?"

"No, I hadn't. And I'm trying not to think about it now," he said flatly.

_Oops. _She snapped her lips shut. Yamcha remained in the same position for a long minute. Finally, he commented, "It's times like this I wish I still drank."

Sensing he needed a temporary change of subject, she asked, "You don't anymore?"

"Five years sober this January," he said.

"Wow."

"Yeah. It was a real bitch. Still is." He passed a hand over his face, and though he didn't look directly at her, his head raised slightly. There were dark circles under his eyes, she noticed. _"_I quit after that New Year's party. The one where we danced. Your parents chewing me out had a lot to do with it, but mostly I was just freaked at how close I came to hurting you, you know?"

_Because of me…_ "Oh," she breathed, not knowing what else to say.

"It's probably the smartest move I've made in twenty years," he mused. Then, after a beat: "I owe you a ton of apologies, Marron. Mostly for tonight."

She shook her head fractionally. "It's okay," she said. "I understand why you said that stuff. And I flushed your phone and keys down the toilet; I think that makes up for some of it."

"That was kind of funny, actually."

"I can't believe I did that," she confessed.

"Me neither." He gave a low chuckle. "Every time I think I have you figured out, baby girl, you pull something like that on me…"

Marron hesitated. "Is…Is that bad?" she asked.

"No. It makes me think that you're going to be a hell of a woman one day." He regarded her with more than a little melancholy before reaching toward her as if to brush her hair back. His fingers froze a bare centimeter from the area between her ear and temple, and his voice went soft. "Hell, you already are."

All at once Marron realized she knew that expression, that tone. It was the same expression he'd worn that day in the park after he'd tackled her away from the oncoming stone, the same look he'd given her after she'd surfaced from the ocean; the same tone with which he'd told her that he knew whenever she wasn't as okay as she claimed, that she was the daughter of warriors, that he'd catch her whenever she fell.

"_As pretty as you are. I think I made a good choice, yeah?"_

"You like me," she whispered, "don't you?"

Agitated, Yamcha pulled his hand back, put it through his hair. "Don't make me answer that. I can't... It's too soon. I have a responsibility as an adult, Marron. I've shirked a lot of responsibility over the years, but this…I can't. Can you understand that?"

She could. It was the hardest kind of understanding she'd ever experienced, the kind that hurt, but Yamcha's tight face articulated his anguish far more eloquently than any words. And his denial spoke volumes enough, she reflected, nodding and trying not to appear disappointed. "I'm sorry," she told him, then, seeing his raised brow, said, "Um, I mean, I get it."

"I can only hope you'll have broken that habit by the time I get back."

She started to answer, but as his words sunk in, her mouth snapped shut. She stared. "You…"

"Three years," he stated firmly. "During that time, I want you to live your life as if I weren't in the picture. That means if you find someone you like, date them and try to make it work; don't worry about me. I've sent word for Puar to meet me at Wagashi's when he can. In a year and a half or so I'll send him your way. If you're still…game…let him know, and we'll go from there. But either way, I'll be back before you turn seventeen. How does that sound?"

"It sounds…" _Like forever_, she thought. Three years seemed an eternity in that moment. But Yamcha had obviously thought about this, and she understood his reasoning. _At least he's coming back. At least he's giving it a chance._ "…fair," she decided.

Yamcha let out a breath. "Okay then." He held out a hand. "It's a deal."

She made to shake on it, but something made her pause before their fingers brushed. "On one condition."

He cocked his head.

"Will you…" She swallowed and marshaled her resolve. "Do you mind…um. Will you. Will you…kiss me?"

Realization dawned on his face. Flushing, the girl looked away. "I know, I know, sorry. Um. Dumb question. I take it back. I mean, if you aren't ready to say it, then you aren't ready to…um. I get it. That sort of thing shouldn't be rushed anyway." She held out her hand again, professional. "Handshakes are good," she said lamely. "I didn't mean to…"

Yamcha grasped her fingers and, with immense care and one deliberate, fluid motion, pressed her knuckles to his lips.

Caught completely off-guard, Marron waited for time to restart. When it did, Yamcha was smiling small, her hand still cradled in his. "Milady," he said evenly.

She laughed then, more to relieve tension than anything. He winked briefly at her.

"Just so you know, that wasn't an 'I like you' kiss. It was an 'I'm-sorry-I-was-a-jerk, I-promise-I'll-come-back kiss. That okay with you?"

"Perfectly," she told him, blushing, and it was. With this to look forward to, three years would pass in no time. _I said I'd wait for you, after all, and I will, _she thought.

She held his hand tighter all the same.


	9. Interlude: Devil on Your Back

**Early August, age 15**

Near the desert there is a castle, and under the castle there is a woman.

The woman is a queen who dresses befitting her rank, her gowns finely brocaded, crystal-bright and lovely. Her hair, the color of a starless night, trails long and loose on the floor of the underground halls that she has come to call home, yet never appears dingier for it. Such a thing would be improper, after all; even in the ugliest places a true lady must be a thing of beauty. And she is beautiful: her eyes are the gray of a stormy sea; her skin is the white of a cherry blossom; her lips are the red of rubies, and the words that fall from them are as subtle and delicate as spun sugar. She moves graceful as a deer through her home beneath the earth, and the shadows around her are brighter for her presence.

She has a visitor this day.

Or rather, she corrects herself, a gentleman caller. The term _visit_ implies that he is not regularly in her presence, and this man will come whenever she calls him. He is a punctual sort, which the queen can appreciate almost as much as his obedience. In these days of spaceships and skyscrapers and merchant-mechanics who fancy themselves princesses, it is difficult to find individuals who know their place in the world. Even this man required a bit of persuasion before he became her vassal, but really, what is a jewel or two in the grand scheme of things? And he has proven himself time and time again.

She enters the largest room in her subterranean palace—the area which, with its high, curved ceiling and spare, echoing magnificence, she affectionately calls her throne room, though it holds no throne and pales in comparison to her old one's opulence. Ah, but she misses it some days: the dutiful guards lining the wall, the obedient handmaids catering to her every whim, the gentle trills of koto and zither flitting through the air for no one's amusement save hers and her husband's. Those were beautiful times. And yet have not the poets said that a breath once spent can never truly be drawn back? A shame, that. But there are things she rues more than the loss of her onetime luxury, things that began long before the castle above her crumbled down.

Her vassal kneels before her, sharp eyes obediently turned downward, away from the star of her face. She draws up to him and asks, her voice musical in the dark, "How fare they?"

"The woman yet lives, Lady Natsume."

"Oh?" The queen's plucked brows rise up on her fine white face. "She has taken far longer to die than I expected. Does she yet sicken?"

"Yes," replies her vassal, voice slightly sardonic as always. "She sickens. The time she spends training with the boy each day grows shorter and shorter."

The queen momentarily longs for her fan, that she at least might hold it before her mouth in modesty as she presses: "Is…Is there pain?" She so hates asking these sorts of questions, yet her sharp-eyed vassal is the literal sort; he is no courtier to sift through subtlety and respond in kind.

"There is pain. She coughs through the night and spits up dark blood." He gives a smirk. It reaches his mouth but not his eyes.

"Ahhh," sighs the queen Natsume almost regretfully. Then she smiles in such a way that made the most powerful of men weep once. "How wonderful."

Her vassal, sensing her will that he respond, mimics her smile and says, "Indeed."

Allowing herself a moment to enjoy this information the way one might enjoy a subtly-flavored cup of tea, Lady Natsume paces delicately before her manservant, her layered gowns and long hair shifting as she does. "And the boy?" she asks at last. "Tell…no, no, do not speak. Rather show him to me."

For a long interval the vassal stares at her as though he does not comprehend her order. But then his hand goes to his chest. A verdant light begins to beam from beneath his shirt and coat; it filters through his gloved fingers, growing in intensity until, when he moves his hand away, the power of the green jewel embedded in his chest coalesces into a hologram-like projection before him. The image, displayed in shades of emerald, shows the subject of her curiosity moving determinedly through martial arts kata after martial arts kata, bare-chested and bare-footed on the desert sand. His hair has grown almost to his shoulders by now; he keeps it bound back at his nape.

"How vulgar," she breathes, yet her gaze remains transfixed. "He uses that woman's forms. Disgusting. And yet…" Pale, smooth fingers reach up reverently, as though meaning to catch the image and trap it like a firefly between her palms. "He looks so much like his father…"

For that bare moment her concentration wanes. It is enough. Her vassal's face tightens; one of his gloved hands goes to his forehead. Through gritted teeth he gives a low, hissing gasp, and his spine curls. "You," he snarls, voice raw, angry, uneven. "You _bitch_-!"

Still focused on the projection, Lady Natsume's lips draw together in a small moue. "This again," she sighs, butterfly-light. "I have no wish to be insulted at this moment. Cease your pointless resistance; it will be better for us both."

"Give me…back…my…"

Regretfully the queen steps back and raises one hand. A flickering glow coalesces in her palm; the image fades, and the jewel in the sharp-eyed man's chest responds to her command, drawing its light back inward. She allows herself to glare at her disobedient servant, though it does not befit a lady to do so. The pained cry that issued from his throat in response to her manipulation of that which controls him morphs into a scornful laugh:

"You think…_you're_ scary, bitch?" he grinds out. "Clearly you haven't…seen my sister…when she's…pissed!"

"Silence," commands the queen. "Your orders are as usual. You will watch them. All of them, especially the woman and the boy. You do this for your own reasons. No one controls you. You will not remember me until I call you; you will not notice the jewel until I command you do so."

Still he struggles against her. "That connection of yours…works both ways, you know…I saw everything…" He laughs wildly, like a dying man laughs (and the lady Natsume would know; she has seen men die). "No wonder…he didn't want you…you hag…of a witch!"

"_Silence!_" The shriek tears from her throat and brings with it an extra burst of power. Giving an ugly cry, the sharp-eyed man convulses onto the floor, back arching, limbs flailing. Then he falls silent at last. The green glow at his chest curls and fades. Soon the only sound in the underground chamber is Lady Natsume's harsh breathing. Her vassal once more, the man rises to his knees, resuming by degrees his position of obeisance before her.

"Go. Return to your task and forget me," snarls the queen. Blank-eyed, her servant gives a low nod. Then he rises and leaves the room, taking the hall from the chamber which will lead up to the ruined castle and beyond.

The lady Natsume takes a series of deep breaths, waiting for the angry red flush to leave her face and the rage to leave her body. It does not take long; she is proficient at regaining control. "Ah, me," she murmurs to herself after doing so. "It seems I overexcited myself a bit. What a silly woman am I." She giggles like a bell. "I shall play the koto now," she decides. "It always serves to calm me. Tis a shame there are none to appreciate its song such as I do…" So musing, she turns elegantly and exits her throne room on soundless feet.

Near the desert there is a ruin, and under the ruin there is a woman. The woman is a witch who dresses as a queen, her gowns finely brocaded, crystal-bright and lovely. Her hair, the color of a never-ending night, trails long and loose on the dirty floor of the catacombs that she has come to call home, yet never appears dingier for it. Such a thing would be natural, after all, and she is unnatural: her eyes are the gray of a tomb; her skin is the white of a corpse; her lips are the red of fresh blood, and the words that fall from them are as subtle and delicate as poison. She moves as gracefully as death through her lair beneath the earth, and the shadows around her are darker for her presence.


	10. Red Eye

**Author's Note:** I have altered the beginnings of some of the chapters in order to better denote the timeline for the events contained within. I hope this proves helpful, and that you all continue to enjoy the story.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Late September, age 15<span>**

_The sky roiled, and beneath it, the city had been thrown into chaos! A black-gowned figure stood atop the tallest building in West City, her long, dark staff held toward the sky. She cackled amid the screams of the terrified populace._

"_Yes, yes! Run and cry, ignorant fools! Your fear only fuels my dark powers! Your terror makes me stronger and more beautiful! I am the evil witch, Magical Mei, servant of shadows, and my power knows no equal!" Lightning cracked as the mistress of darkness spoke, and she threw back her head in triumph. Purple energy drained from the residents of the city below flowed into the crystal at the top of her staff. Only two people remained unaffected by Magical Mei's malicious spell; they ran towards the building on top of which the evil sorceress was perched._

"_This is terrible!" cried Marron, pigtails flying behind her like golden banners as she and her animal companion dashed down the sidewalk. The men, women, and children of West City had all collapsed to the ground about them, groaning and clutching their heads in an attempt to ward off mystically-induced hallucinations of terror. "Magical Mei has brought the whole city to a halt!"_

_Just behind her, Oolong nodded his head. "Her evil influence will only grow stronger as time goes on. Marron, you must transform into Lovely Lyrical Lady Angelfish and save everyone!" he said._

"_Right!" Marron skidded to a brief halt. She undid the hairclip at the left side of her head and, with a determined nod, tossed it into the sky._

"_Endless and almighty sea! Grant me power; transform me!" she cried. In a shining riot of bubbles and light, a short dress, pale gloves and boots, and a white eye-mask concealing her secret identity as a mild-mannered high-school student appeared on Marron's person. The smell of the ocean permeated the air as, focused on the distant building, Oolong's worried eyes widened. _

"_Hurry! She's gathering the last of the energy; it's almost too late!" he gasped. They ran on!_

_Magical Mei was still glorying in her newfound might when Marron and Oolong appeared on the rooftop behind her. A sickly violet miasma pulsed around her body. "Yes!" she cried to the dark storm clouds . "No one can stop me now! Not even…"_

_Lightning flashed. "Magical Mei!" cried Marron._

_The sorceress's head swiveled round. Her eyes went wide. "No…! This is impossible! It should have affected you, too!" she growled._

_Laying one hand confidently on her hip, Marron stepped forward. "One who commands all the power of the deadly ocean can have no fear! So long as villains like you prey off the panic of innocent civilians, Lovely Lyrical Lady Angelfish will be here to mete out punishment!" She pointed at Magical Mei and warned, "Prepare for a burial at sea, dark enchantress!"_

_Mei's blood-red lips curled in derision. "Your wimpy waterworks cannot compare to the power that I now command!" Her magic staff glimmered. She pointed it in Marron's direction. "_Shadow Shot!_"_

_Oolong ran one way, Marron ran another, and an orb of energy exploded between them with a mighty crackle and boom. Marron was thrown off her feet and onto the hard concrete rooftop. "She's strong! Could it be that even my Siren Scream won't be able to defeat her?" gasped the defender of justice over the explosion's roaring aftershock._

"_You musn't think that way, Lovely Lyrical Lady Angelfish!" cried Oolong from the other side of the roof, fists clenched in desperation. "If you doubt yourself, her power over you will only strengthen! I believe in you. You must win!" _

_Marron smiled gratefully. "Oolong… Thank you!" she called._

"_Annoying swine!" Magical Mei swung her staff round. A purple beam of energy slammed into Oolong. With a terrified shout, Marron's porcine companion flew across the rooftop and over its edge!_

"_Oolong! No!" screamed Marron._

_Thunder boomed. Mei cackled. "You see? Defiance is useless!" she proclaimed, jabbing a long-nailed finger at the fallen magical girl. "Your friend is bacon, little girl! And you'll soon join him!"_

"_Oolong…!" Marron shook away her tears. Trembling with grief, she rose deliberately, eyes shadowed in anger. "How could you? I will never forgive you! _Siren_…" She joined her hands at the wrists and pushed them in front of her like a set of flaring wings. "…_Scream!_" _

_A roaring wave of power shook the very skyscraper beneath Marron and Mei's feet. It crashed into the witch, who shrieked and writhed: _

_"Noooo!" _

_Marron watched without satisfaction, mourning the loss of her friend. Then:_

"_Good work, Lovely Lyrical Lady Angelfish!" came a new voice suddenly. Marron whipped around and gasped,_

"_Tuxedo Jurai!"_

_The gentlewoman thief in a black leotard, fishnet stockings, and a long red cape alighted on the rooftop. A crimson rose had been woven into her hair, and she wore a mask similar to Marron's. In her arms, she carried none other than Oolong! A wide smile broke over Marron's face, but a low snarl brought her attention back to Magical Mei, who was, to the shock of all present, still standing!_

"_Interfering little girl!" she gasped. Smoke rose from the singed edges of her gown, and her whole body sagged with the effort of remaining upright. "You haven't beaten me yet! I may have used most of that energy to survive your Siren Scream, but I have power enough still for…this!" She held a glowing palm above her head. "I summon thee, monster of the void!"_

_A dark portal formed over a spot on the rooftop before her. Energy crackled around it. "Monster of the void? What is that?" asked Marron, taking an instinctive step backward._

"_This is bad…" muttered Tuxedo Jurai at the same moment Oolong yelled, "It's a demon from the dark realms! Once she releases it, there's no way to send it back without dying or defeating it! Over nine thousand guardian warriors have fallen before its awesome power!"_

"_That can't be right!" cried Marron disbelievingly, but at that moment an inky humanoid figure that looked and moved as though it were made of liquid shadow fell from the portal, landing on the rooftop in a crouch. It raised its swarthy, faceless head in their direction, and—though she had no idea how she could tell this—seemed to look directly at Marron before lurching to its feet like a macabre marionette. Mei chuckled._

"_Meet your doom, Lovely Lyrical Lady Angelfish!" she called before vanishing in a crackle of violet energy._

"_That coward!" snarled Jurai. But then the demon charged with breathtaking speed, and there was no more time for talk. Its arm shifted, forming into an obsidian scythe that sliced through the air at Marron. The blonde girl barely dodged, and the concrete beneath where she had stood splintered under the force of the demon's blow. Tuxedo Jurai took the opportunity to pull the rose from her hair and hurl it at the demon. It was not a true rose; forged from metal and magic, it was sharper and more deadly than anything else in the world. However, the demon cut it in half as though it were made of straw! "No way!" cried Jurai. The moment's distraction was enough, however, for Marron to thrust out her hands and shout,_

"Siren Scream!_"_

_Power surged forward and slammed into the monster of the void. It uttered a heinous bellow, and Tuxedo Jurai whooped. "You got him!"_

_Oolong's face was still grim. "No," he said. And sure enough, when Marron's magic dissipated, the demon still remained, unharmed! In the span of a heartbeat the monster was on her, hand around her throat. The inertia of the demon's movement sent it and her slamming against the raised edge of the skyscraper. Below, the civilians were beginning to come back to their senses, but Marron could not see this, nor could she see the tiny cars lined up like matchboxes on the ribbon of road so far down. She could not see anything but the monster's featureless head tilted toward her. In desperation Marron summoned as much raw power into her palm as she could and shoved it against where the demon's face should have been. It exploded, and the demon's grip around her neck loosened. It staggered backward. Marron tumbled onto the roof, coughing. Relieved and triumphant, Tuxedo Jurai and Oolong screamed her name: _

"_Marron!"_

_The blonde-haired guardian of justice rose to her feet, first smiling weakly at her friends, then returning her attention to the writhing monster of the void. It shuddered and moaned; its body suddenly seemed more fluid, more insubstantial. Then, to the shock of Marron and her companions, the blackness began to melt from its body, running down its form like the ink it so resembled. There was human skin underneath!_

"_There's a person inside that darkness!" cried Oolong._

_Who…? wondered Marron, tensing. She had a strange feeling then; a profound sense of familiarity began to creep up through cracks in her unconscious mind. As the impression gripped her, the remaining blackness sloughed off onto the ground, revealing—!_

"_Baby girl?"_

_Marron's face whitened. "No," she gasped._

_Yamcha looked at her, confused. "I was having a nightmare," he said, trailing off in puzzlement. "Why are you dressed like that? What happened?" He took a small step forward. Marron took one back. _

"_Why now?" she rasped, and began to tremble. "I haven't thought about him for months and months. Why are you making me remember him now?" Tears fell down her face. "I can't think about him! Not when it's only halfway done! I've been strong; I've been good! I can't…"_

"_Marron…!" He made as if to come forward. She backed up further. _

"_Stay away from me!" she cried. No sooner had the words left her mouth than the small of her back struck the rooftop's edge. She lost her balance and fell backward, tumbling over the side of the building to plummet down, down, down…_

Marron woke a bare moment before she hit the floor beside her bed in a tangle of limbs and off-white sheets. Blinking in the bright morning sunlight, she stared dumbly up at her ceiling, gathering her bearings by degrees. She perceived the steady wash of the tides outside her window and, for once, they did not calm her. Putting her fingers to the side of her face, she groaned when she felt hot liquid streaking her cheeks.

"Fantastic," she muttered bitterly, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. "This is going to be an _awesome_ day."

And, as tended to happen with most self-fulfilling prophecies, she was correct. Though not for the reasons she expected.

* * *

><p>There was nothing in the universe more annoying and tedious, thought Marron as she stared at the fiery-hued trees latticing the outside of the dirty classroom window, than her history teacher's voice and her history teacher's class, respectively. It was a beautiful autumn day, crisp and sweet as the first bite of a fresh apple: the sky stretched cloudless and peerlessly blue over West City; the air had a refreshing nip to it, and the sun shone warm and generous, mitigating the chill. It would be a good day for flying, she mused. A great day, even. And yet, she was stuck here.<p>

Frowning and shifting in her hard plastic chair, Marron adjusted the notebook in which she'd jotted some halfhearted notes and tried not to let her boredom and irritation show. She brought the end of her pen to her mouth and bit at it half-heartedly. Beside her, Jurai picked her cuticles with a glazed-over look in her eyes identical to that of her classmates. She and Marron sat on the second of five rows of desks; every one of them was filled with students looking bored out of their minds. Ms. Apuri droned on pompously, oblivious:

"Until the appearance of the Red Ribbon Army and the subsequent uniting of world governments to prevent a group such as they from coming to power ever again, many of the central and Eastern provinces, as well as the surrounding islands to the south of our continent, were dominated by various warlords who conquered and ruled their lands primarily through martial prowess, the most famous of these being the Ox-King of Fire Mountain. However, the most powerful warlord in all history, Ban Ming, fell from supremacy over ten years prior to the first recorded sighting of the Red Ribbon Army…"

_Do you even know what _happened_ to the Red Ribbon Army?_ Marron wanted to snap. _I do. And I know who really beat Cell, too. I know more about what's gone on in these past fifty years than you ever will, so please just stop talking._ _Listening to this is like getting your nails ripped out_.

The fifteen-year-old sighed, attempting to calm down. Getting annoyed would do her no good. Yet that seemed all she'd been able to do lately…

Some days were easier than others. For that matter, reflected Marron, some _months_ were easier than others. Last month—August—had been a good month. During its final week, she had gone on a day trip to the beach with Jurai, Jurai's father Jun, and her older sister Eiri. Said beach had been a proper beach, like neither the tiny spit of sand that made up Kame House's island nor like the rocky strip of coastline where she had first learned to fly, but rather a long golden expanse of seaside fit for tanning, strolling, surfing, or simply lounging and enjoying the scenery. Ironically, for all Marron's familiarity with the ocean, she had never experienced beach-going as most people tended to picture it; on the rare occasions her family had taken trips in the past, they had always gone to the mountains or some other inland destination, as vacationing by the ocean when they spent their days surrounded by it would have been pointless. As it was, the fifteen-year-old's ignorance of such things as sandcastles and shell collecting had baffled Jurai.

"But you're a fish in the water! And you said your family lived near the ocean!" she'd exclaimed. As none save the Z-fighters and their closest allies knew of Kame House's existence—the island did not even appear on a map—Marron had evaded her friend's questions regarding her beach-going naïveté and had instead encouraged Jurai to drag her about about hunting conchs and building sand-forts, the latter activity at which Jurai was especially proficient; she had approached the task with more somber determination than Marron had ever seen from her before. Her only response when Marron had commented on her uncharacteristic intensity had been to growl, "Sandcastles are _serious business_, Mar. Serious. Business."

"I'll take your word for it," Marron had said, inching away from Jurai slightly as her friend had slapped yet another plastic container shaped like a turret onto their claimed section of beach, a glint of quasi-religious fervor in her gold-brown eyes. The castle had turned out beautifully, of course; children had crowded around it in awe, and Jurai, pleased with her work, had been gracious enough to allow them to knock it down before the tide came in.

"I can't believe you let them mess it up like that," Marron had confessed later. "Wasn't it hard, seeing it get smashed?"

"Building it is the fun part. Besides, I got pictures beforehand!" Jurai had held up her father's camera, grinning. At that moment Marron had never been prouder to call her a friend.

That evening they all had gone to a shabby restaurant that served the best seafood in the area, where Marron had gotten to better know Jurai's sister—a medical student with a passion for horticulture—and her father—a former baseball player turned sports photojournalist and freelance photographer. Afterwards, Marron and Jurai had walked to the end of a nearby pier and sat with their legs dangling off the side.

"It's gonna be weird, being in high school this year," Jurai had said.

Marron had looked up at the sky, which was slowly fading from the rosy gold of sunset to the lilac of evening. "It really will. I'm kind of intimidated. The building's so much bigger, and all those people…"

"We'll get used to it pretty quick. My sis says it's only scary for about a week, and then it's just a pain having to fight the crowds and stuff." Jurai had given a resolute nod, then nudged Marron's ribs. "It'll be okay so long as we watch each other's backs, yeah?"

"Yeah." Marron had swung her feet. "Jurai…?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks for inviting me. And for, you know, being my friend…" She'd flushed. "And stuff."

"Hey, no sweat," was all the dark-haired girl had said in response. It was all she'd needed to. They'd put their arms over each other's shoulders then, and, watching the stars slowly emerge in the moonless sky, Marron had felt happier than she'd been in a long, long time.

That had been last month. A good month.

This month had not been so good.

Jurai's sister had been correct: it had only taken Marron about two weeks to acclimate to the hugeness of her new school. The crushing flow of students, the winding hallways, the large class sizes and the sheer industrial anonymity of the environment had quickly faded into the back of her mind; they still bothered her at times, of course, but she couldn't afford to pay attention to them, because shortly after their novelty had dissipated, Marron had found herself confronted with a whole new set of difficulties, most of them internal. She'd been overly moody lately; apathetic one moment, short-tempered the next, she felt as though some other person had taken up residence in her brain—a person with serious anger management issues. Not even swimming helped relieve the tension, and lately, she'd been spending most of her free time sleeping, not that that did much good either. This month also marked the first time that she'd truly gotten irritated at her parents. Her conflict with her mother had occurred perhaps a week ago, when the android had brought up that topic that Marron had come to dread: her period.

"You're fifteen. It's not healthy that you haven't gotten it by now," #18 had told her. "I'll make a doctor's appointment."

Terrified at the idea of being questioned and examined, Marron had retorted, "Why do you always make decisions without asking what I think and just assume I'll go along with them? It's my body! I don't want a doctor, so just _leave me alone_!" Then she'd stomped off, leaving a mute #18 standing in the living room by herself. Then this morning, Marron had snapped at her father. She _never_ snapped at her father. She'd never really snapped at her mother, either, but somehow doing so felt worse in her father's case, if only because he was the more overtly sensitive and affectionate of her two parents. The hurt that had flashed in his eyes when, in response to his telling her that he would be a bit late in picking her up from school that afternoon, she'd only snarled, "What_ever_, Dad," had been nothing short of pathetic. Thinking about it now made her feel slightly sick to her stomach.

_Maybe I _am_ coming down with something. That would make sense_. Marron rubbed her forehead in an attempt to both soothe herself and check her temperature. _Great. It's only the first class of the day and I'm already getting a headache…_

"_Marron_!"

Jurai's hiss from snapped her out of her stupor. Marron looked about the chalk-white classroom to find almost every student in it staring at her with expressions of mild entertainment or, in a few cases, sadistic glee on their faces. Her teacher, on the other hand, just looked angry. The red-haired woman folded her arms across her ample bosom.

"Miss Marron, is the view outside the window so terribly interesting that you cannot even be bothered to answer when you're called upon?" she asked from her position in front of the blackboard, sarcasm dripping poisonously from her pale mouth.

"N-No, Ms. Apuri…" spilled out Marron, fighting back mental images involving her teacher's head and several blunt, heavy objects.

"Will you answer the question I just asked you, then?" the woman said archly.

_Question_? Marron gulped. Forcing her embarrassment down and resigning herself to the inevitable, she asked in a small voice: "Which question…?"

"I beg your pardon?" Her teacher's tone sounded anything but conciliatory. "Speak up, young lady."

Marron noticed absurdly then that Ms. Apuri reminded her of an albino lizard she had seen during a trip to the zoo with her parents years ago. _Complete with wrinkles. _The resemblance was so uncanny that she had to fight down a smile as she clarified, "I, um, I didn't hear the question. I'm sorry…"

Seeing the brief flash of amusement pass through her student's eyes, Ms. Apuri puffed up and asked, "Do you find this _funny_, Miss Marron?"

"N-No, Ms. Apuri—"

Unconvinced, the woman pursed her lizard lips. "Detention, Miss Marron. This afternoon, from three till four-thirty," she proclaimed, turning to the board and taking up a piece of chalk, "since you're obviously having trouble concentrating right now."

Marron's cheeks went beet red. Someone snickered toward the back of the room, and, ki flaring, she rotated in her seat to fix him with an angry look. The boy would not see her aura, but her charging it tended to have a subconscious effect on even the most spiritually dense people. Sure enough, the boy quickly averted his eyes, face coloring, and Marron turned back. She folded her arms and glowered down at her desk, muttering hatefully a phrase she'd heard Jurai use in reference to the teacher multiple times: "Stupid broad."

Unfortunately, Marron had not spoken quite as softly as she had intended. Amidst her class's collective inhalation, Ms. Apuri rotated around to face Marron with wrath in her dark brown eyes. "_What did you just say to me_?" she asked, face purpling in her indignation.

Jurai swore under her breath. Mentally, Marron joined right in with her. _I'm dead. I'm dead. I'm crazy. I'm dead_, she thought. _Why did I _say _that? I'm done for! I'm going to have detention for the rest of my _life_ now! And that's if Mom doesn't kill me first! And that's if Ms. Apuri doesn't kill me before _she_ does!_

"Principal's office," hissed Ms. Apuri.

Marron said nothing. She simply stared straight forward. _She really does look like that lizard when she's mad. Her eyes get all bright and buggy._

"Did you hear me, Marron? Principal's office, now!" shrilled the woman.

Mechanically, Marron reached down and shouldered her schoolbag. Catching a glimpse of Jurai's stunned and disbelieving face as she gathered her things, she made her way wordlessly out of the classroom.

* * *

><p>She never actually saw the principal; instead, Marron met with a rather bored-looking secretary who, after trying and failing to reach both her parents, filled out a highlighter-yellow slip and told Marron to give it to her mother or father as soon as she could. Then she filled out an orange form and instructed her to present it to Ms. Apuri when she went for detention that afternoon. Marron took both papers wordlessly and left when the secretary dismissed her. By that time first period had let out and students were crowding the halls, loitering and chatting and shuffling to their respective classes. Marron stared at the yellow and orange papers in her hand. Her thirteen-year-old self, she knew, would have been sobbing by this point. Her fifteen-year-old self couldn't even bring herself to care.<p>

_You should be ashamed,_ she thought to herself. _What would _he _say if…?_

"Shut up," she hissed aloud, cutting the thought off and storming down the hallway until she reached her navy-blue locker. She found Jurai waiting beside it, holding the notebook Marron had left behind in one hand and wearing a concerned expression.

"They call your folks?"

"Couldn't get them. Big surprise there; ever since they got jobs they're too busy for anything else," muttered Marron. She undid the lock and yanked open the metal door. Her books came spilling out onto the ground. "Oh for the love of…"

"Here, let me help."

"I can get it, Jurai. I'm not completely helpless," snapped the blonde.

Backing off, Jurai heaved a sigh. "Marron, what's going on with you, huh? Ever since the end of August you've been real touchy. Did something happen?" she asked.

Marron replaced her fallen textbooks and binders, including the one that Jurai had brought her. "Nothing happened," she said shortly.

"So what's…?"

Marron rounded on her. "Kami, Jurai! Nothing is wrong! I'm fine, my parents are fine, every stupid thing in my life is just fine! Everything's the same as it ever was—and even if it wasn't, I missed the part where it would be any of _your_ business! You're not my mom, so stop nagging me!"

The moment she'd said it Marron realized her error. Jurai looked at her blankly, eyes oddly luminous. Marron's hand went to her mouth. "Jurai…I'm sorry; I didn't mean…" she began, but Jurai's features only hardened. She dropped the notebook beside her and pushed past Marron roughly.

"I don't care. It's none of my business anyway, right?" So saying, she receded into the crowd of jostling teenagers, bracelets jingling. Marron was left standing by the row of lockers—suddenly, terribly, and completely alone.

* * *

><p>Marron had to hand it to Fate or God or whoever was in charge of doling out ill luck: they were consistent at the very least. The rest of her school day lived up to the hellish standards set by the early-morning fiasco: she flubbed an experiment in Chemistry because Jurai, who was far better at such things than her, refused to be her lab partner, forcing Marron to settle for the stupid jock boy who did nothing but flirt with the resident cheerleader all through class. Then she had learned she'd failed a quiz in Math, bringing her average down from a B to a C. She'd been forced to sit alone at lunch while Jurai hobnobbed with her friends from the track team, had found when she'd gone to turn in her homework in Language Arts that the paper had vanished from her backpack, and finally had missed a shot in Phys. Ed. that would have secured her team's victory. The amount of failure she managed to pack into that single day was almost comical. However, no screw-up or poor grade could compare to the misery of having to call her father at work and tell him she had received detention. Standing behind the gymnasium with her cheap plastic cell phone, she dialed his number with leaden fingers, pressing the phone against her ear and steeling herself when he picked up with a cheery, "Hello?"<p>

She swallowed. "Hey, Dad. It's me."

"Marron! This is a surprise." Her father was no fool; caution and skepticism threaded through his next words: "Is everything alright?"

"Well…actually…" Marron pressed her lips together.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I…I kind of…have detention this afternoon."

There was a long pause. "Oh, angelfish," said Kuririn finally. "What did you do?"

That was the final straw. To Marron's shame, even she could detect the warble of tears underlying her next words. She snapped: "What did _I_ do? I didn't do anything! I've never gotten in trouble before; why are you assuming it was _my_ fault? I was just daydreaming and I couldn't answer a question, so my teacher got mad and stuck me in detention because she's an idiot!"

Her father sounded more shocked than anything, but there was anger in his voice as well. "Marron! You should never talk that way about your teachers!" he cried.

"She _is_!" raged Marron, tone edging to a whine in her frustration. She trembled with anger and had to resist stomping her foot on the ground in childish frustration. Why was her father taking Ms. Apuri's side? Her teacher had been the unreasonable one, not she!

At length Kuririn gave a sigh. "Marron, I think you, your mother and I are going to have a good talk this evening," he told her after a beat. "You're not acting like yourself. It's worrying everyone. We need to discuss what to do."

_It's worrying everyone. _You're_ worrying everyone_, he meant. That old, familiar self-conscious guilt reared its ugly head inside her. Feeling it uncoil in her chest, Marron surprised herself by laughing briefly and helplessly into the receiver before she bit out, "Whatever, Dad," and snapped her phone closed. Then she threw it onto the dry brown grass and, sinking into a sitting position against the building's gray outer wall, proceeded to have a minor breakdown. For most of it, she did not even truly cry—well, she _did_ cry, but less out of sadness or remorse than aggravation and rage at her teacher, at Jurai, at her parents, and most of all at herself. She buried her head in her knees and sank her nails into her scalp, trembling and keening under the weight of her own frustration. Then finally the tears began to truly fall, and she wept loudly, grateful for the muffling effect of her gym uniform's sweatpants and the relative seclusion of her location. She did not even try to wipe away the salt, water, and mucous that flowed down her face as she gulped and shuddered and whimpered like a little child. She had no idea how long she vented her emotions before her incoherent sobs morphed into recognizable words, but when at last her mind had cleared enough for her to realize they had, she continued to chant softly, rocking back and forth:

"Uncle Yamcha. Yamcha… Come home, please. I'm sorry. I'll be better. I'm so sorry. Please come home. Yamcha…I miss you, I miss you so much…"

Because it all came back to him in the end. She had thought she'd been doing well. All these months, weeks, days, she'd trained herself not to think about him and to push away her feelings and memories as best she could—to live her life as if he weren't in the picture, like he'd said. Yet here she was in spite of all that, miserable and sobbing his name, and no amount of anger at herself or at him could abate the sick feeling in her chest. Her current situation, she knew, had little to do with Yamcha directly, but she would be lying if she denied that her irritability had in fact begun when the year-and-a-half mark had passed with no word from him. She shuddered and hiccupped. _I tried so hard to be good. To be strong_, she thought. But it felt all for nothing now.

Her sniffles went on far longer than she would have liked; yet she might as well have tried to stop the tide as the stream of sobs spilling from her mouth. So she allowed her hysteria to drain from her system until, too tired to sustain her fits and mumbles, Marron ceased both. Soon the school bell announced the end of the day. She ran her fingers through her hair, mopped up her face, and gathered her things before she set off around the building for the high school proper. She was in enough trouble without being late for detention.

As she walked, Marron attempted to formulate a plan of action. She would serve her detention time dutifully, she resolved, and then she would immediately apologize to both her parents and Jurai—especially Jurai, Marron thought. She needed her friend now more than ever; she needed someone who she could talk to about Yamcha. Her parents were out of the question in that respect, as Marron had long since decided that confiding in them at this uncertain stage would do far more harm than good. As it stood, her current strategy of trying to ignore her feelings was not working, and worldly as she was, Jurai would likely be able to offer some insight into the situation. More importantly, Jurai was her best and only friend. Marron could not afford to lose her. So she would tell Jurai she was sorry, that she'd been stressed ever since school had started (which was not a lie in the strictest sense), and beg her forgiveness. Knowing Jurai, she would likely accept her apology; the dark-haired girl had never been one to hold grudges. The issues with her parents would be far trickier to resolve. She would simply have to be as honest as possible without revealing too much about Yamcha. She would submit to the doctor's appointment #18 had mentioned, apologize to her father for speaking to him so harshly, and try her best to be a better daughter in general. It was all she could do at this point.

The fifteen-year-old was so wrapped up her own thoughts that she failed to notice the strange man until she'd all but run into his back. She flailed and sidestepped him clumsily; their arms grazed, and she gasped, "Oh, I'm sorry!"

The man turned to her. His eyes widened a little, as though he had not noticed her before she'd spoken. After a moment he chuckled as though he were enjoying some kind of private joke. "Are you okay there?" he asked. His voice was low and amused.

Marron flushed. "Yes, sir." _I haven't seen him around here before. He looks too young to be a teacher; maybe a substitute? If that's so, Jurai will flip. He's really handsome._ "Um, I'm very sorry. I wasn't paying attention at all."

The man shook his head. "That's alright. I had my head in the clouds as well. You're a student here?"

"Um, yes. Can I help you find something?" inquired Marron, adjusting the position of her backpack on her shoulder. Even as she offered her assistance, she felt suddenly nervous. The strange man's gaze had a certain sharpness to it that struck her as at once alien and familiar; it made her feel like an insect being scrutinized beneath a magnifying glass, but at the same time it reminded her of somebody—who, she wasn't sure, but his keen gray-blue eyes most definitely held a certain quality of déjà vu…

"Not something so much as someone," replied the stranger. The afternoon sun glinted on his teeth. "I'm looking for a ninth-grade student named Marron. Do you know her?"

The question, as well as the sinister way he'd asked it, turned Marron's blood to ice; her heart had to beat double time to move it through her veins, and the hair on the back of her neck rose. _Danger. Danger. Danger._ She gulped. "N-No, sorry, the name doesn't ring a bell," she said quickly, already analyzing potential escape routes. To her horror she remembered that she had left her cell phone behind the gym. _I'll have to use the one in the office._ "Sorry about that... Um, I hope you find her, though! So, um, bye…"

The man's smile widened as she began to walk quickly toward the school. "I think you're lying," he said, tone pleasant.

Like a frightened rabbit, Marron froze mid-stride, her white sneaker hovering an inch above the ground. Then, fear granting her abnormal speed, she made a break for the door. She'd barely taken five steps before a strong arm wrapped around her waist and tugged her back against a body like a solid wall. Marron kicked at him, ki flaring erratically as she strained against his grip with all her strength.

"Scream," the stranger told her before she could open her mouth to do so, "and I'll knock you out." Marron twisted her neck and prepared to tell him _exactly_ how much she loathed that threat, but her world blurred then, and the stranger shot up into the sky so quickly that she forgot she could struggle, forgot she could fly, forgot she could do anything _but_ scream. The wind buffeted her so that it was difficult to draw breath, and her cries were tossed away like frail, dry leaves. Too terrified to close her eyes and too terrified to properly see, Marron lost herself in desperate prayers to whatever god would hear them. _If I make it out of this alive, I'll learn to fight, I'll get faster, I'll be a better daughter and a better person, just please don't let me die, not before I apologize to my parents and Jurai, not before I see _him _again… _And then they were dropping— only slightly, as a means of evening out before the stranger shot off in a horizontal trajectory far above the earth, but the stomach-dropping motion was enough to terrify her into another round of shrieking. Rolling his eyes, the stranger slowed just a bit, and holding her out in the air in front of him, gave her a good shake. "Shut up," he told her.

Dazed, Marron snapped her lips shut. The sharp-eyed man grinned. "Good girl," he said. He readjusted his grip on her and continued on, this time moving so quickly that Marron couldn't have managed a scream if she had tried. The air was frigid this high up, and though she hated herself for it, Marron instinctively curled closer to her kidnapper, whose body radiated heat like a coal. She could have sworn she heard him chuckle a little at that before, redoubling his speed, he hurtled onward through the sapphire-blue sky.


	11. Black Eye

In wondering where her kidnapper might take her, Marron's panicked mind had conjured images of far-away caves, secret labs, abandoned warehouses, and covert bases of operation hidden deep in the Arctic. So when the sharp-eyed man slowed after only about five minutes of high-speed, high-altitude travel, and when Marron found upon opening her eyes that she could still see the city, albeit distantly, she felt more than a little taken aback. She looked off to the right and nearly jumped upon recognizing a familiar jut of stone, the direction from which she could vaguely smell the sea. _That's the cliff where Uncle Yamcha taught me to fly._ She glanced down at the woodlands stretching out in all directions beneath her, a dark green puddle of boughs and foliage. _Which means that those are the haunted woods_, she realized._ Does this mean _he _was the one who hurt those animals and made the hunters disappear when I was thirteen?_ The thought renewed her fear and dread, but before Marron had a chance to struggle, the sharp-eyed man dropped down, slipping through a hole in the dense canopy and landing gracefully as a cat on the shadowed earth. He released Marron at the last moment; she tumbled ungracefully onto her hands and knees. She was so cold from the flight (even her kidnapper's considerable body heat had not been enough to completely stave off the freezing air) and so dazed from her fall that Marron almost forgot to try to bolt once she'd risen to her feet. Almost. She took off stumblingly in the direction of a gap between two trees, pelting toward the darkness beyond.

The sharp-eyed man materialized in front of her. "Ah, ah, ah," he scolded, seizing her wrist in such a way that when Marron attempted to twist free, she wound up hurting herself far more than him. "Leaving so soon? We haven't even begun to talk yet."

"I don't want to talk to you!" cried Marron. She continued to pull against his iron grasp. "Let me go!"

Her kidnapper obeyed, only to snatch her arm again when she made to run again. He rolled his eyes at her indignant shriek. "Too easy. Clearly, you get your brains from your father's side of the family. Can we skip this little dance and move on to the part where you tire yourself out and we get down to business? It's boring, and, quite frankly, useless." He released Marron roughly, sending her staggering a few paces back toward the center of the clearing. Teeth gritted, she did not run, but instead glared at the strange man as fiercely as she could manage.

"Who are you?" she demanded, rubbing her bruised wrist with her other hand.

The sharp-eyed man smiled as though he'd hoped she might ask that very question. "Who do you think I am?" he asked.

Marron forced herself to think through her panic and really study the stranger as he stood easily before her, arms folded, gaze amused. He had on plain slacks, a gray-blue trench coat, and a scarf the color of a tangerine. She tried to remember from her father's descriptions whether any of his old enemies had worn such clothes, but she came up with nothing. Thinking of her father automatically made Marron think of her mother: _I wish Mom was here. She'd glare at him with those eyes of hers, and then she'd cross her arms like she always does, and he'd go run—Wait…_

Marron checked the stranger's face. She took in the icy blue of his eyes, the sharp, angular shape of them. She observed his stance, his height, the cut of his cheekbones and the fall and texture of his hair; the way he moved and looked at things. Dawn rose on her brain.

"You're… you're like Mom," she realized.

Unfolding his arms, the android slowly clapped his gloved hands together in a parody of applause. "And you're not completely stupid." His smirk widened. "Call me Uncle 17. I'm your mother's twin brother."

For a moment, Marron only stared incredulously. Then she narrowed her eyes at him to mask her shock and took a reflexive half-step backward. "You're lying. She's never mentioned anything about having a brother!" she accused.

The man who claimed to be her uncle raised an eyebrow at that. "Hasn't she?" he murmured to himself, putting a hand to his chin in thought. "I suppose that makes sense. I've never given her a reason to." He turned his attention back to Marron. "Well. Whether you've heard of me or not, we're still family. Surprise." His smile finally showed teeth—white and perfect, like #18's. Seeing them, Marron thought of panthers and foxes and jackals. Deep down she sensed the man was telling the truth, or most of it anyway; he and her mother looked too much alike for it to be a coincidence. But there was just enough ambiguity about him that she felt justified in retorting, "I'll ask Mom whether or not that's true after she gets here and beats you up for stealing me!"

17 laughed, putting his hands on his hips. "What, no hug for your Uncle Juunana? No tearful, loving sentiments for a long-lost family member?" he crooned mockingly.

Marron's nails dug into her palms, and her eyes darkened. "Families," she spat, "do _not_ kidnap each other. Uncles do not drag their nieces out to the middle of nowhere without so much as a hi-how-are-you!"

"Oh, sorry," replied 17, his remorseful words belied with sarcasm. "I forgot. You prefer your uncles to drag you to fancy clothing stores and whine about how they're liars and weaklings before buying you off with cheap jewelry."

All the blood rushed to Marron's face. "_How do you know about that_?" she cried, voice strident.

"So I'm right, then?"

"Were you _watching_ us?"

17's mouth quirked. "And neither of you suspected. Not bad, eh? And my sister used to say that I couldn't be subtle if I tried. Granted, fooling a ten-years-rusty hack of a martial artist isn't exactly what you'd call a great feat; he didn't even notice me after I hurled that rock…"

"That was _you_?"

"Oops, did I say that out loud?" 17 mock-gasped, widening his eyes in dramatic consternation. Then his look dropped into one of mild annoyance. "Of course it was."

"Why did you do that?" demanded Marron. She was angry now, angrier than she'd felt in a long time. Kidnapping was one thing, but spying and interfering from afar made her feel more violated, somehow. Her brow furrowed in open hostility. "Interrupting me! You…"

"Ruined your chance to confess your undying love for a fifty-year-old womanizer?" finished 17. He scoffed. "Come off it, little niece. That man was no prize before he was over the hill. I did you a favor—not that you took the hint, but what can you do?"

The insult to Yamcha set her bristling. "You don't know him!" she shot back viciously.

"I know he's a coward who let someone else fight me in his place and that he all but admitted to have fallen for an underdeveloped thirteen-year-old. I don't see that there's much else I _need_ to know," said 17 with a deceptively careless shrug of his shoulders.

_He was listening then, too? _"He didn't—It's not like that!" she protested.

17 raised an eyebrow. "You asked him if he liked you, and he told you not to make him answer because he had responsibilities to keep in mind. Exactly what else could he have been implying?"

"He just meant that he'd consider it once I got older! Not that he was attracted to me then!"

Her uncle looked amused now rather than merely scornful. He studied Marron as though she were a particularly slow lab rat struggling to reach the end of a maze. "Oh, really? That's what he meant? Well, I suppose you _would_ know better; adolescent girls are so well-renowned for their keen insight and worldly knowledge, after all," he sneered. At Marron's offended glare, 17 raised his hands in an ostensibly placating gesture that Marron found completely insincere. "Oh, I _am_ sorry. It's the programming. The good doctor forgot to give me an agreeable personality, you see. What's your excuse?"

"I got kidnapped today," she retorted.

"Heh." Her uncle snickered, sounding almost impressed. He eyed her appraisingly. "Maybe you are my sister's daughter after all," he mused. "You're not as pretty as her, of course, but that's to be expected considering who she chose to breed with…"

Indignation spiked through Marron, more on her father's behalf than on her own; however, beginning to see that responding to 17's provocations would only encourage him, she suppressed a rebuke and forced herself to ignore his jibe. "Why did you bring me here?" she asked instead.

17 grinned and cocked a brow._ He really does look like Mom,_ she realized as she continued to glower at him,_ but their expressions aren't the same at all. _She noticed in addition that his eyes looked slightly glassier than her mother's, almost unfocused. _If I didn't know better, I'd say he might have a fever, but Mom never gets sick_… Then 17 answered, interrupting her observations: "Is it so wrong that I wanted to chat with my darling niece?"

Marron recalled Wagashi-sensei's similar response to a similar question—_"I need a reason to visit my dear old student?"_—and refused to believe him."You could have done that before now, at school," she snapped, "or visited me at the house like a normal person. Why did you _really_ bring me here?"

"You'll believe a loser friend of your father's has good intentions in bringing you outside the city, but you don't believe I only wanted the pleasure of your company? You cut me to the quick, little niece." The android laid a hand over his stomach as if wounded, which struck Marron as odd; whenever Jurai said the same thing for dramatic effect, she put her hand over her heart. But the blonde girl refocused, thinking,_ If I stop to notice all the weird things about him, I'll never be able to concentrate._ She folded her arms and lowered her chin, hoping the stance made her appear even a little more in-control.

"Uncle Yamcha didn't snatch me up and haul me to a creepy forest," she replied. "Or spy on me beforehand."

"No, he only encouraged your ridiculous crush on him just to boost his own ego, then ditched when things got messy." Incited, Marron opened her mouth to reply, but 17 cut her off. "Speaking of which, and seeing how you haven't noticed yet… Where is that barrette of yours, little niece?"

Marron's hand flew to the nape of her neck. The loose twist in which she'd secured her precious hairpin after gym class had come down sometime during her struggles with 17. She had been too preoccupied to notice at the time. Pure panic overtook her. _The clip must have fallen out sometime during the flight! I'll never be able to find it now!_ She rounded on 17, ready to give him a piece of her mind, only to halt as the sharp-eyed android flicked a hand and produced her silver-and-aquamarine hairpiece seemingly from mid-air.

"Oh," he chuckled. "Looks like I had it all along. Silly me." He tossed the accessory up and down. It seemed to shine with its own pale luminescence against the gloomy backdrop of the forest. Marron forced herself not to follow its path like an eager dog might with a treat. She fixed her gaze on her uncle instead.

"Give it back," she ordered, trying to imitate the imperious tone her mother sometimes used on salesmen and other difficult people.

"You want it?" asked 17 mildly.

Marron hesitated. She had no older siblings; however, she had spent enough holidays watching Trunks, Goten, and Bura interact to know a trap when she heard it. So instead of answering affirmatively, Marron rolled her eyes skyward and turned haughtily to the side. "If you're going to be such a pain about it, it's not even worth arguing over," she said, tone flippant.

17's grin widened in the corner of her eye, and Marron realized she'd miscalculated. "Well, if you really don't care…" he drawled. Ki energy began to crackle around his hand. Marron could feel the heat of it even from where she stood; the gathering charge levitated her barrette a finger-length above her uncle's palm. Blue light sparked and flashed, and she watched in horror as the clip began to shake like the lid of a boiling pot.

_Reduced to shadow and gold in the afternoon light, Yamcha gathering a section of her hair and sliding the barrette in above her ear with the gentlest smile she'd ever seen: "As pretty as you are. I think I made a good choice, yeah?"_

"_Stop!_" Marron shrieked.

The ki flickered and vanished obediently. The hairpiece fell back into 17's gloved palm, unharmed. Frustrated tears flooded Marron's eyes.

"Strategy. I like it," said 17, "but you shouldn't bluff when your opponent has nothing to lose by calling you on it."

To Marron's shame, a few of the gathered tears rolled down her cheeks. "Why are you doing this?" she cried. "Why did you bring me here? You could have visited Mom and me before now. My dad wouldn't have been mad at you for what happened all those years ago; he forgave Mom, he'd—"

17 threw back his head and laughed. His hair caught what little sunlight shone through the hole in the canopy and turned the crown of his head vaguely bluish, reminding Marron of a blackbird's wing. She wasn't sure what her uncle's laughter reminded her of; perhaps a gun firing in an empty catacomb, though she had never heard or seen either of those things.

"As if I cared what your runt of a father thinks of me! As if he could hurt me if he wanted to!" gasped the android, wiping at the corners of his eyes with his free hand. Marron's blood boiled. 17 managed to gain control of himself and said, "Little niece, listen: your mother and I each have the power to destroy your father a thousand times over. Even if he were at his best, and I at my worst, I'd have nothing to fear from him. So whether or not he is 'mad' at me is a moot point."

"Dad's the strongest full-blooded human in the world," asserted Marron.

"Yes." 17 smiled. "Which is still nothing compared to me. Do you need proof, little niece? I can show you, if you like."

The blonde girl froze at the implied threat. _Would he_? she thought frantically while trying not to let her fear show. _Would he hurt Dad just to prove a point_? _The wish on the Dragonballs revived him, too, so that means he's a good person at heart. He wouldn't hurt Dad. Right_? What she found upon glancing at her uncle's face hardly convinced her: 17 wore the same expression he had when he'd threatened to ki-blast her hairclip into oblivion moments ago: a strange blend of casualness, cruelty, and amusement that curdled Marron's blood. Whatever 17's true intentions were, she did not want to risk calling his bluff again. She shook her head once, quickly, without removing her eyes from her uncle. His grin curled wider, and Marron couldn't help but feel like she'd lost some kind of duel that she had not known was taking place.

"But I digress. You wanted this returned, yes?" 17 held out the barrette. Remembering her previous mistake, Marron nodded. Her uncle said, "Come over here and get it, then."

The android's tone was perfectly even, almost friendly. Marron hesitated a bare moment before she shelved her suspicion and walked toward her uncle. She did not trust him, exactly, especially not after the implied threat to her father, but the fifteen-year-old nevertheless stood by her previous conclusion that 17 would not hurt her after he'd had so many opportunities to do so already. She could not afford to pass up a freely-given opportunity again, either. Twigs and needles snapped under her shoes as she closed the distance between them. She reached out to grasp her hairpin, wary that the android might yank it away at the last moment...

Too fast for her to react, a gloved hand met the center of her chest and shoved. Marron fell onto the moist earth. The scent of half-decayed pine needles was so sharp at the moment of impact that she reckoned she could taste them—bitter and earthy, like green tea with lemon. She winced and struggled into a sitting position. "What are you—?"

"I never said I'd _let_ you take it, did I?" said 17 in a chiding tone. There was nothing like pleasantness in his smile now. His blue eyes gleamed like mirrored knives. "You're going to have to work harder than _that_ if you want it back."

Though a part of her had suspected something like this might happen, Marron felt her last strand of tolerance fray and snap. Rage flooded her. "You're such an _asshole_!" she cried, baring her teeth in an unconscious snarl.

"Oh, how quickly the angelic persona slips," her uncle commented. He resumed tossing her barrette up and down in his palm. "I hope you haven't let the scar-faced loser hear that dirty mouth. On second thought, he'd probably like it…"

Marron saw red. Her hand closed around a fist-sized rock lying beside her, and with a degree of accuracy one could only achieve by braining a perverted old man on a regular basis, she stood and lobbed it at her uncle as hard as she could. Android 17 deflected the stone with a mere flick of his wrist, but the speed and power behind the throw obviously surpassed his expectations, however low those might have been. Marron took advantage of his mild surprise and rushed him, making a grab for her clip only to have 17 push her away once more. This time she did not fall fully, but managed to hold her footing and launch back at him in another futile attempt to seize her property, wet leaves and needles scuffing up behind her. "_Give it back!_" she demanded.

17 gave a derisive laugh as he smoothly avoided her rage-fueled assaults. "18 hasn't taught you a thing, has she? At first I hoped you might be masking your power level, but I can see I was wrong. What a waste: the child of warriors, and all you have to show for it is a decent arm. I'm disappointed."

"_You_-!" Had she not been so lost in her own anger, Marron might have noticed how 17's movements were gradually slowing even as the fevered shine in his eyes increased. Yet he did not seem to comprehend these changes in himself, but rather seized Marron's right arm as it whistled past his bicep and continued bantering as she struggled.

"I should really just blow this thing up and have done with it," he said a bit breathlessly, indicating the hairclip. "Maybe that will help you realize your precious Uncle Yamcha isn't coming back—"

Driven beyond coherence, Marron gave a furious shriek and lunged, this time not aiming for her barrette, but rather for her uncle himself; she had never wanted to hurt someone as much as she wanted to hurt him in that moment, and the blinding, white-hot anger filled her so completely that no room for self-admonition remained. She swiped at him clumsily, wildly, eager to scratch his face with her free hand. To her astonishment her nails grazed 17's chin. He tensed as though readying to shove her away, and because of this shift her hand completed its downward arc by crashing against his rock-hard breastbone. Pain instantly coursed up her arm as though she'd touched a power line; with simultaneous yelps, she and her uncle stumbled away from each other, eyes scrunched tight in pain. Marron's barrette fell to the earth between them, forgotten.

_Ow ow ow ow ow! What _was_ that_? Ignoring what felt like broken glass shooting through her arm, Marron wrenched her eyes open. Android 17, doubled over in agony, had fallen to his knees; he clutched at his chest, and his harsh breathing echoed too loudly through the clearing. "Uncle 17?" Marron quavered, her rage fading. Panic seized the teenager when her uncle did not reply. _What have I done to him?_ she thought. "Uncle-!"

A cry tore its way from the male android's throat that made the hair on her arms and neck stand on end. His hands flew to either side of his head, and he gagged, spine arcing forward, then up. Then, to Marron's astonishment, something in the center of his chest pulsed green and began to glow. It shone clearly even through his clothes and seemed to suck all the light from the surrounding area; if the forest had appeared dim before, it looked as though night had settled over it now. Above, a cacophony of beating wings and sharp cries sounded as hundreds of birds took to the air. Marron watched them fly away for an uncomprehending instant; then a wet rustling noise drifted up from the ground, drawing her gaze. She thought at first that the very earth was moving beneath her, but then, to her horror, Marron realized that was an illusion brought on by countless insects emerging from their underground and out-of-sight hovels; centipedes, spiders, beetles, ants and others swarmed like a tide over the soil toward 17. The fifteen-year-old gasped and floated upward, shaking a few bugs from her shoe before returning her attention to the sharp-eyed android. "_Uncle 17_!" she screamed desperately. "Just—just hold on! I'll get help!"

Slowly, straining as though under an invisible weight, the android lifted his head toward her. "Little niece…" he rasped. Marron's stomach dropped at the lost, frightened look in her previously-cocky uncle's eyes. "Run…"

Green light, ugly and unnatural, flared around him like a battle aura then; it sent Marron cringing from him, though in her horror she could not look away. 17's form blurred and flickered behind the green miasma as though she were viewing him through the thickest of heat waves. His face was twisted in an agony that Marron could sense was not entirely physical. _Oh, god. What's happening to him?_

"_Get out!"_ howled 17, tearing at his scalp and hair like an animal. "_Get out of my head! Get out, you bitch! GET…" _And wordlessly he screamed anew. This time his cry, magnified somehow, pealed through the air like a force in and of itself. Marron shut her eyes, threw up her hands before her face, and waited for the inevitable explosion of power to overtake her with every muscle in her body tensed. _I'm sorry,_ she thought, preparing herself.

Only, no blast of the strange green energy came.

After an eternal moment, Marron cracked open an eyelid and peeked out from behind her crossed wrists. She drew in a breath when she found her uncle slumped forward on his hands and knees, breathing hard. The wind had died along with the strange green light; the forest's illumination level had returned to normal. Dropping onto the ground, she ran over to 17. Something crunched oddly under her sneakers as she did; glancing down, Marron faltered a little when she found she'd been tramping over the exoskeletons of so many dead insects piled half-an-inch thick on the ground closest to the android. Then she reached his side and, kneeling, forgot about anything save what had just occurred. "Uncle 17," she stammered, her hands hovering over his shoulder, "I'm so sorry; I didn't mean to… What on Earth _happened_? What was that light? Are you o—"

Strong fingers wound around her throat faster than Marron could register them. A surprised cry escaped her, and then she could vocalize nothing. The pressure on her neck increased as 17 slowly raised his eyes to look at her.

_They're black. Black and green. Like a cave, or a galaxy…_

"Ahhh," sighed 17, his voice pitched higher than usual and echoing vaguely. The jewel on his chest flickered brighter as he spoke, as though its brightness was tied to his auditory output. He stood, movements slightly jerky, bracing much of his weight on Marron as he rose. "You must excuse me. It has been so long since I have used my crystals in this manner. I fear I may not have much time to speak. So I hope you will not be offended if I pass over introducing myself, hmm?" he intoned almost musically.

_Wh-What? What's he talking about?_ Marron attempted to tuck her chin in to make it harder for the android to choke her, but only succeeded in making her neck muscles twitch slightly. _It hurts. Mom. Dad. Help me._

Dimly, she heard the voice ask, "Where is the boy Yamcha?" The query would have made Marron's heart flip had she not been preoccupied with her impending strangulation; spots began to appear at the corners of her vision, and her head pounded with sealed-off blood. She found 17's wrist and tugged at it feebly in an attempt to free herself. To her surprise, the pressure around her windpipe almost completely let up. She gasped, eyes squinting shut as she drew in the sweetest lungfulls of air she'd ever tasted. As she coughed, the voice that clearly did not belong to 17 spoke regretfully: "Oh, dear. I did not intend to choke you, young one. You will pardon my clumsiness; most often I use only a body's eyes and the smallest corner of its mind. Now, where is Yamcha?" she asked again.

"Who...are you?"

The voice took on a slight edge of rebuke. "That is not important," it said with 17's mouth. "Answer my question. _That_ is important. That horrible woman has somehow warded herself against my sight. The protection extends to him as well, which..." 17's lip curled into a markedly feminine pout, "irritates me."

Marron's mind whirled. _"Horrible woman."_ _Is she_—for she was certain the voice was female, now—_Is she talking about Wagashi-sensei? What's her connection to her? And to Yamcha? _A new thought struck her then:_ That must be why he hasn't sent Puar to me like he said he would. He's in danger._ A curious mix of newfound fear and guilty relief flooded her. She wasn't sure which emotion made her feel worse in the end.

"As soon as you tell me where he is, I shall release your uncle," wheedled the voice as sweetly as poisoned honey when Marron did not reply right away. The fifteen-year-old thought about 17 with a pang. _He must have been watching me all those times because she was making him subconsciously. That means he's been under her control for a year at least. Nobody deserves that. How do I help him, though?_ she wondered._ Should I lie? But if she catches on that I'm not telling her the truth, she might make it worse for him. I need to be honest._ So resolving, she fixed the eyes that were not 17's with a stare that she hoped communicated the truthfulness of her next words:

"I don't know where he is," she said. "W-We haven't talked at all since he left."

There was a pause. The presence inside #17 made him sigh. "How irksome," it commented, dark eyes turning skyward. "I do so hate this…"

Marron thought for a moment that the voice believed her, and, seemingly in confirmation of this, the grip around her neck fell away. But her illusions of 17's possessor leaving her alone shattered when 17's fist drew back and slammed into her stomach before she could so much as tense. By an android's standards, the power behind the strike was less than minimal; by a fifteen-year-old girl's standards, it might as well have been the hardest punch ever thrown. Marron did not even feel the impact she made with the insect-laden ground; her pain receptors were entirely focused on the area below her ribcage. Vision blurring, Marron spasmed into a C-shaped curl as something hot and coppery flooded her mouth. _My tongue_, she realized. _I must have bitten my tongue._ The blood hit the back of her throat, and, rolling over, she vomited it and a fair amount of stomach bile onto the earth.

"Now, shall we try this once more?" asked the voice once she had finished. "Tell me where Yamcha is, please, young one. I would so hate to make my vassal pluck out one of your eyes; I cannot stand the sight of gore."

_Oh, god. She's serious. She really will do it. Or make him do it, rather. Mom, Dad, anyone; where are you? _"I don't…know…" gasped Marron thickly. "I don't…"

From behind her, 17 seized thMarron's shirt, lifted her, and threw her to the ground with such force that her vision spun, her jaw clacked together, and her neck jerked like a ragdoll's as she skidded and landed yards away from the android. The voice said in a low snarl,

"Do not play games with me, peasant girl. It is one simple question, and if there is anyone in this world who knows the answer, it is you. I will no longer indulge your lies."

_I wish I did know_, thought Marron hazily, _but even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. _She struggled onto her hands and knees, breathing hard.

"I am waiting," said the person in 17's body, beginning to walk forward. A voice from overhead made her freeze, however:

"17? _Marron_?"

_Mom_! Forgetting her whiplash, Marron jerked her head upward while the voice uttered a growl. #18, Kuririn, and another individual who the girl did not immediately recognize dropped down from the canopy to land between her and her assailant with a light updraft of ki. Kuririn went to Marron without pausing, confusion shining bright in his eyes. He crouched down beside her. "Marron, what are you doing here?"

"It's not 17, Dad!" choked out Marron, her wounded tongue struggling to form the words. "I mean, it is his body, but there's someone else—!" Her stomach twinged, and she was unable to continue; every muscle from below her ribcage to her pelvis ached, and she fell into a fit of painful coughs. "There's someone else controlling him!" she managed finally. Kuririn's brows lowered; his face took on a grim cast, and he called to the other two adults,

"He's possessed."

Still dressed in a gray business suit, having obviously flown over straight from work, #18 faced her brother with a steely countenance and narrowed eyes. "Who are you," she demanded coldly of the presence inside 17, her voice more menacing than Marron had ever heard before, "and what do you want with my daughter and brother?"

"_Tch._" 17's face twisted into a snarl. Then, abruptly, his eyes rolled up into his head and the green light at his chest died; the android pitched forward onto the ground, unconscious. Her mother stood tensed for a second. The man at her side lowered his head slightly, observing 17's still form over the rims of glasses that he did not need.

"Whatever that strange power was, it's gone now," he confirmed, and Marron recognized his voice instantly: _Gohan-san._ Her mother pursed her lips and walked over to 17, knelt, and turned him over onto his back. Marron could not see her uncle from where she crouched, but #18's expression did not change as she began to undo the fastenings of his coat, so she assumed no major outward changes had taken place.

"I couldn't sense any ki," said Kuririn, looking apprehensive.

Gohan shook his head. "Me neither. I don't think it was a ki technique." He frowned. "It was...something else; I've never felt anything like it before."

After a beat of silence, Marron spoke up: "S-She said something about crystals…"

"Crystals?" Kuririn blinked. "'She?'"

"The woman inside Uncle 17," said Marron. Her blue eyes went wide then, and she grabbed at the front of the green polo shirt that made up part of her father's work uniform. "Dad! We have to find Uncle Yamcha! He's in trouble!" she cried frantically, ignoring the pain in her abdomen.

Gohan had joined #18 next to her brother by this point, but he turned his attention to Marron. "Yamcha? What does Yamcha have to do with-?"

"She's looking for him and Wagashi-sensei! That's why she had Uncle 17 kidnap me; she thought I would know where he was. She can't find him herself because Wagashi-sensei has some kind of, of talisman or ward or something that keeps her from seeing what they're up to. They must have just gotten it, because it's been months since Uncle Yamcha left, and she's really mad, and he needs our help!" explained Marron in a clumsy rush.

"Shhh, Marron, calm down." Kuririn's tone was gentle, but the incredulity in his face gave Marron pause. Her suspicion that he might not believe her was all but confirmed when he asked next: "Did you get hit on the head anywhere?"

Marron shook her head violently. "I'm not brain-damaged, Dad! I got hit in the stomach. I know what she said. You have to believe me!" she insisted.

Kuririn looked troubled. "But wards, talismans, possessions? That makes it sound like we're talking about magic, here."

"It's not like that's unprecedented," said #18 flatly, now rolling up her brother's shirt. "What do you think the whole Majin Buu affair involved?"

"Well, yeah, but I just don't see how Yamcha could be involved in anything like that. He's so…normal. And he's never mentioned anything about witches or magic before," the former monk said.

"Sometimes extraordinary things happen to ordinary people, Kuririn; that's just how it—" Gohan faltered, went silent. He and #18 stared down at 17's now-bare chest with identical horrified expressions. "Kami," breathed Gohan, removing his glasses. #18's teeth gritted, and her brows lowered.

"What is it?" asked Kuririn, helping Marron to her feet and allowing her to lean slightly on his shoulder as they made their way over to the fallen android. What they saw there made Marron draw a sharp, reflexive breath despite her aching muscles. A green crystal, all angles and reflective shine, sat sinisterly where 17's breastbone should have been. Half embedded in his chest, half protruding from it, it looked as though someone had wedged it into his body by force alone; the flesh at crystal's perimeter had healed unevenly, and some of it oozed grayish pus. Beneath the surrounding skin, twisting green lines like veins snaked away from the crystal, webbing all across 17's torso. In fact, that was exactly what the sight reminded Marron of: a spider's web, with a shining green cocoon at the center. It was—and this was the only way Marron knew how to describe it—grisly. Unnatural. _Evil._

They stared at it for a longer interval than any of them were comfortable with. #18 broke the silence.

"Kuririn. Take Marron to Kame House. Get Roshi and the others and pack some clothes and essentials. I think we should relocate to Capsule Corporation for a little while until we figure out what's going on here."

His normally-agreeable face grim, Gohan asked, "Would you like me to help you take 17 over to Bulma's in the meantime? I'm sure she'll be able to at least get some analysis done on this thing by nightfall."

"Yes, thank you." #18 stood. Her face was unreadable and distant. It frightened Marron; the whole situation frightened Marron. And she wasn't alone:

"Do you really think that's a good plan? I don't know if we should be in the same vicinity as him while all this is going on. What if he wakes up with her controlling him again?" asked Kuririn worriedly, gesturing to 17.

The android's eyes hardened. "If she's smart, she won't use him again. If she's smart, she'll stay as far away from me and my family as possible," she said lowly. "And if she isn't smart, I'll track her down and end her myself."

Even Gohan looked a little intimidated by #18 then. He exchanged a quick glance with Kuririn, who nodded briefly, communicating something Marron could not understand. Her anxiety rising, the teen blurted, "What about Uncle Yamcha? We need to warn him, or—"

"If he has a talisman protecting him from this woman, that means he already knows he's in trouble," responded the android in a clipped tone. "We don't have anything like that to help us. Let's see to ourselves before we race to help him."

She was right, of course. Marron bit her lip and ducked her head.

"Alright," said Kuririn, rising, as always, to the occasion. "We'll meet you at Capsule Corp. in about two hours. Gohan—thank you for your help."

The half-Saiyan shook his head. "Any time. I'll ask Piccolo if he knows anything about Earth magic, and I'll be around as often as I can. Dad might be, too, if I can, uh…"

"…find him?" finished Kuririn with a weak grin.

"Yeah. He's run off to train with Uub again."

"That's Goku. He goes to the beat of his own drum."

Gohan smirked then, and Marron was surprised to see an almost Vegeta-like cast to his features. "My dad goes to the beat of his own orchestra," he said, hoisting 17 over his shoulders and hooking the unconscious android's arms around his neck. He and #18 rose into the air, and, with a small wave from Gohan, they streaked over the tops of the trees. Marron and Kuririn watched them until they were out of sight.

_My stomach hurts_, reflected Marron absently, before another thought struck her. "Dad?"

"Yes?"

Marron couldn't meet his gaze. She swallowed. "...About…what I said earlier… I'm sorry. I had a really bad day, and I-I shouldn't have talked to you like that. I'm so sorry." Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, due as much to the stress of what she had just endured as to her genuine regret for her actions. "And I'm sorry about getting detention and about being such a jerk lately and about hurting your feelings and…"

She was silenced by a hand on her head. Kuririn's face softened as he regarded her.

"Don't worry about any of that, angelfish. I'm just relieved you're alright. When I saw you lying on the ground back there…uh. Heh. I don't know what I'd've done if you'd been…" Letting his hand fall to his side, the former monk shook his head. He flushed and blinked hard; his eyes went bright. He looked very small then, thought Marron, who'd always considered her father "big" despite his diminutive stature, simply because he was her father: he had given her countless piggyback rides; he had tried valiantly to teach her to fly before Yamcha had even been a stray thought in her mind and had patiently accepted it when she'd proved unready; he had been the one to reassure her when she'd worried, hundreds of thousands of times—_It will be okay_. He was her father, and he had never been anything less than a hero in her eyes. Before Kuririn could turn away in embarrassment, Marron hugged him, burying her face in his shoulder.

"I'm not going anywhere, Daddy," she whispered. He returned her embrace, petting her long hair soothingly; clearing his throat, he replied,

"I know, angel. I know."

They held each other tightly. Sniffling, Marron pulled away after a few moments.

"Do you think you can manage a flight to the city?" asked Kuririn, pushing a strand of her hair away from her face.

"I…I think so."

"Alright, then; let's go. Let me know if you get worn out, okay?"

"Okay." Marron paused. "Dad?"

"Hmm?"

She phrased her next question very carefully: "Our staying over at Capsule Corp… That means we'll be living with Bulma's family, right?"

"Well…yes, that's the plan," said her father, a bit confused. "Don't worry; she never minds having guests, and there's plenty of room. We won't be a bother, angel."

Unmollified, Marron continued to fidget. After a moment, "…_All_ of her family?" she pressed timidly.

"What do you-" Comprehension lit Kuririn's face. He looked at her with no small amount of sympathy and sighed, "Vegeta, right?"

Marron nodded miserably.

"You shouldn't be scared of him, angelfish. He's a lot more mellow now than he was…" At Marron's incredulous stare, he smiled weakly. "Seriously! You wouldn't believe what he was like back then; I remember when…Um, I probably shouldn't give details… But at any rate, you probably won't even see him that much. He's not really much for socializing; he spends most of his time in the gravity chamber. So it'll be fine!" he concluded brightly. "Think of it as a vacation, angelfish. We'll probably take you out of school for a few days until we get a better idea of what's going on. That'll be fun, right?"

She nodded, though her eyes told a different tale.

"C'mon, let's get to the car before your mother starts to worry." So saying, Kuririn pushed up into the sky.

Marron remembered her hairclip then. "One second!" She ran over to the area where she thought she'd seen it fall, and, after a good fifteen seconds of searching under pine needles and dead insects, she found her barrette, a bit dirty but none the worse for wear. She held it to her chest briefly and gave a deep, relieved sigh. _At least I didn't lose this. If that happened on top of fighting with Jurai, getting detention, failing a test, losing my cell phone and everything else that's happened, it really would be the worst day ever._ Her forehead wrinkled. _Uncle Yamcha, wherever you are, I hope you're okay. _

She took to the sky, then, tucking her hairpin into the zippered pocket of her sweatpants. Kuririn led her out of the dark forest and into the sunlight, and together they flew over the deserted fields surrounding the city that was to be, for a time, their permanent home.


End file.
